The little river, blue
However little the sky has azure,
From here is another league,
Then pours its pure flow into the river.
Bigger, it would be less sweet,
She wouldn't have the slowness
Who in the grass leads and grows
Its delicate and singer course.
She would have no meadows
Greener so close to hand,
No more than these flowery banks
Where barely marks the way.
Nor the silence so peaceful,
Nor among the plants of the waters
The almost invisible narrow channel
Between the rushes and the reeds.
merat
