Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
...
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
...
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
...
Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
...
Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
...