This clear sky, light azure softly glowing, pure and innocent
Where clouds glide like ships on the bosom of a gentle water,
Calm and idle, they let the sun tint them with rose
Who in her poetic whim has laid out her palette
And stroke by stroke paints the vast horizon, now drawing away
To make room for the sickle moon, brightening in the dusk
And the lone star, her companion, yet from her forever sundered.
The wind gains strength, the leaves shudder but do not fall;
The night sighs, draws down the violet curtain, and prepares for the next scene.