How still it is here in this colored mountains.
The trees stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell.
The air hangs quiet as spaces in a marble freeze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem