My horse stopped under the tree full of doves,

I whistle so pure that there are no promises

to their banks that all these rivers keep.

Living leaves in the morning are the image of glory …

And it is not that a man is not sad, but rising before

daybreak and standing cautiously in the trade of an old tree,

leaning from the chin to the last star, he sees in the depths

of the sky great pure things which turn to pleasure.

My horse stopped under the cooing tree, I whistle a purer whistle …

And peace to those who are about to die, who have not seen this day.

But from my brother the poet, we had news.

He wrote one more very sweet thing. And some knew about it.