BLESSED be the spring
From the moss-green rock,
Where if no nymph sing
And shepherd guard no flock,
At least music gushes
Lovely as the search
Of water toward the sea
Where flowing waters end.
Though brute Time crushes
The forest, oak and birch,
Though brute Time be
A foe and then a friend,
The little spring is clear,
The little spring is cold,
And though this year My heart feels old,
It still sings on
As when the forest stood
Before the hurricane
Crushed down the wood.
It still sings on
Where nymphs and shepherds pass
In time long gone,
In time that never was.