27

Yes, I am the dreamer; I am companionable
To the tiny golden flowers on a crumbling wall,
And I hold discourse with the trees and the breeze.
All these things know me, as anyone sees.
In May, when the branches are heavy with perfume,
I engage in conversation with the wallflowers’ bloom;
I take counsel from cornflower and ivy at root.
That mysterious being you deem to be mute
Leans over me, and uses my pen to write.
I hear what Rabelais heard; I see, some cried
Some laughed; and I hear what Orpheus heard.
Do not be surprised by all I am told
By ineffable Nature’s sighs. I’m he who converses
With all the voices of metempsychosis.
Before the great sacred concert begins,
The sparrow, the bush, the meadow’s living springs,
The forest—that vast bass—flowers, birds flying free,
All these gentle instruments speak to me.
I often attend this divine orchestra to hear it.
If not a dreamer, I might have been a sylvan spirit.
Through the calm in which I gather my beliefs,
And by dint of speaking softly to the leaf,
To the raindrop, to the feather, to light’s rays shone,
I have descended so deeply into Creation—
That abyss where wild, primal tremors strike—
That I no longer even startle a fly into flight!
The grass-blade quivering with an eternal glee,
Grows tame and becomes familiar with me;
And, quite unaware that I am even there,
The roses and bumblebees carry on their affair;
Sometimes, amidst the boughs, soft and blessed,
I lean in close to gaze upon the nests;
And the little bird—that anxious, holy mother—
Fears me no more than we would if we discovered
The eye of God peering into our own retreats.
The modest lily watches my approach without fright
As the violet unfolds to the day’s kiss
Bashful, tends to its toilette before I wash;
To these fair things, I am a discreet and trusted ally.
And the sprightly butterfly—that libertine of the azure sky—
Who playfully ruffles the petals of a half-unveiled bloom,
Does not pause even when I pass through the gloom;
And if the flower hides itself in the grass,
He says to her: “Don’t be silly! He’s here—he belongs to us.”

Les Roches, August 1835.