It is the mid-May sun that, rayless and peacefully
gleaming,
Out of its night's short prison this blessed of lands is
redeeming;
It is the fire evoked from the hearts of the citron and
orange,
So that they hang, like lamps of the day, translucently
beaming;
It is the veinless water, and air unsoiled by a vapor,
Save what, out of the fulness of life, from the valley
is steaming;
It is the olive that smiles, even he, the sad growth of
the moonlight,
Over the flowers, whose breasts triple-folded with odors
are teeming;—
Yes, it is these bright births that to me are a shame
and an anguish;
They are alive and awake, — I dream, and know I am
dreaming;
I cannot bathe my soul in this ocean of passion and
beauty, —
Not one dewdrop is on me of all that about me is
streaming;
0, I am thirsty for life, —I pant for the freshness of
nature,
Bound in the world's dead sleep, dried up by its treacherous
seeming.