Learn from the child to pray to all things: the bee of the spirit makes a honey of light on the living _aves_ of the rosary of roses, a chaplet of perfumes on the rosaries of love.
O lovely April, glad and bright, What matters your blithe song, White lilacs, hawthorns, and the flowered gold Of sunlight streaming through the branches, If far-away my well-beloved In the northern fogs stays.
I had gone to the heart of the garden, When in the night some invisible hand, Stronger than me, struck me to earth,-- 'Tis for your joy, a voice did say.
And the tiny venturous flowers along the hedges.
Behold the rapture of autumnal souls, The town dissolves like near illusions; Behold the portals of the moonless night Veiled in violet and orange-hues. Princess, what did'st thou with the jeweled tiara.
O Jesus crowned with thorns, bleeding in every bruised heart.
The hour of white cloud is cast o'er the plain, Like reflections of blood, or flocks of wool, O rose-colored sweet-heather, O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has paled o'er the plain, The long slow veils of white wool fall, O mauve-colored sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has burst o'er the plain, Gently the reeds sang under angered winds, O red sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky.
The hour of gold cloud has passed o'er the plain So swiftly: its splendor has vanished. O gold sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Masks, by Remy de Gourmont