The Hours of Afternoon, XXVI: The golden barks of lovely summer

The golden barks of lovely summer that set out, riotous for space, are returning sad and weary from the blood-stained horizons.

With monotonous strokes of the oars, they advance upon the waters; they are as cradles in which sleep autumn flowers.

Stalks of lilies with golden brows, you all lie overthrown; alone, the roses struggle to live beyond death.

What matters to their full beauty that October shine or April: their simple and puerile desire drinks all light until the blood comes.

Even on the blackest days, when the sky dies, they strive towards Christmas, beneath a harsh and haggard cloud, the moment the first ray darts through.

You, our souls, do as they; they have not the pride of the lilies; but within their folds they guard a holy and immortal ardour.