THE SUN OF MAY

That sun that reverberates hot
Over the field scorched with its fires,
And the young lily of the toasted orchard
Leave and dry the stream in the meadow;

There, on the cliff of the fierce mountain
buried under marbled snow,
Turns the tight ice into a stream
that fertilizes sparkling its hillside.

You, sun of love, that in the middle of May
You rise above my funereal horizon
The fire that burns me and illuminates me! ...

May your face not elude me a single ray;
It was my heart snowy mountain:
Make him, burning endlessly green hill.