me dream of the clear meadows of my native valley, or of her who is a
drop of frozen blood, or of her who resembles the solid sun.

I prefer you to them, even though you are less precious. Sometimes you
support the beams of thatched roofs while you gaze at the star-dotted
sky, sometimes it is on you that the sheep-dog stretches himself as he
mournfully guards his flock.

At the heart of the ether where you rest upon the summits may you
continue to receive the nourishment with which your peaceful
kingdom is endowed, may the light bathe your cells which are still
unrecognized, may buoyant flakes and curves steep them, may they
resound to the vibration of the winds, may they receive at last that
harmonious manna which stilled the hunger of Mary Magdalene in the
grotto.

Around you will bloom your sweethearts, the purest flowers of the
world, but they are already less chaste than you for they have a
perfume of snow.

* * * * *

Poor gray sisters of the brook that I find on the plain, you are
tarnished stones, on you falls the shower of rain that the sparrow
may drink, you are struck by the foot of the she-ass, you are the
guardians that form the inclosures of miserable gardens, it is you who
are the concave threshold and the stone at the edge of the well worn
smooth by the chain of the bucket, you are servants, poor things
become shiny like the blades of implements of husbandry, you are
heated in the hearth of the poor to warm the feet of old women, you