The spring does not flow now, the stream is quite dry,
No traveller goes to quench his thirst there.
The grass does not grow now, no daffodil blooms,
No fragrance of lilies floats on the air.
Only the sandy bed of the dried-up river
Fills the parched traveller with the horror of death.
No matter; in the distance another stream murmurs
Where timid violets perfume the air.
And willow bough, seeing themselves in the ripples,
Spread about the water the coolest shade.

The thirsty traveller, crossing the highway,
Moistens his lips with the limpid water
Of the stream shaded by the tree's branches,
And gladly forget the spring now dry.
Translated by Muriel Kittel