1.)
The northeast blows,
The sweetheart among the winds to
Me, ‘cause it bodes flamy mind
And gives a good trip to the mariners.
However now go and greet
The beauty Garonne,
And the gardens of Bourdeaux
There, at the sharp waterside
The pontoon is going and the stream
Deeply falls into the river, but
Beyond that one precious pair
Of oak trees and white poplars look;
2.)
Still to me this thinks well and how
The elm wood is inclining
The broad crowns, atop the mill,
Though in the courtyard a fig tree is growing.
On holidays the brown
Women are walking thereat
On silken bottom,
In time of march,
When night and day are alike,
And above slow-going pontoons,
Heavily of golden dreams
Skies pull up, that lull in cradles.
3.)
However one gives,
Full of the dark lightning
To me the sweetly smelling beaker
Therewith I may recline; ‘cause below
Shadows the slumper would be sweet.
It is not good,
To be without a soul
By mortal thoughts. Still it’s good
To have a dialog and to say
The heart opinion, to hear plenty
About days of love,
And doings, which are occuring.
4.)
But where are being the friends? Bellarmin
With the fellow? Many bear
Timidity, to go to the font;
Even the abundance begins
In the sea. They,
Such as painters, bring together
The beauty of earth and don’t spurn
The aliferous warfare, and
To abide desolate for years, below
The bare mast, where the holidays of the City
Do not enlighten the night,
And no stringed instruments and no indigene dance.
5.)
However by now the men
Have gone to the indians,
There at the breezily peak
At vineyard-mounts of grapes, where the
Dordogne comes down,
And together with the splenderous
Garonne ocean-wide
The river extinguishes. But the ocean
Captures and gives memory.
And love assiduously attaches the eyes,
But what will remain the poets donate.
