As day so light, but weird by nature,
All - Being, but - as patch of dream,
She comes to you with a speech perceptible,
And after her - comes always Spring.
Here she sits and chatters, burbles,
She likes to tease me, hinting thus
About the noted thing of her whirl,
Her great, but secret inner fire.
But I'm deaf for speech impetuous,
I'm following the start of incomposure,
Expansion of uneasiness in glare
Of her eyes, shivering of shoulders.
When speeches touch my heart, and also
I turn intoxicated by her odour,
I'll fall in love in her eyes, shoulders,
As in the spring wind, as in verse, -
And flashes then the cold wrist, and
Breaking a talk, she from herself
Repeats, that power of passion -
Nothing against the cold of brain! ..
20 February 1914
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem