All landscapes have
Immersed themselves in blue,
All the bushes and trees of the stream
That far-out northward swells.

Light squadrons, clouds,
White sails close by,
The shores of the sky behind
Dissolving in wind and light.

When the evenings come
And we fall asleep,
The dreams, the fair ones,
Step in on tender feet.

Cymbals they sound
In their hands of light.
Some whisper and hold
Candles to their sight.