The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
there is no pain as great as being alive,
I am the singer who of late put by
The verse azulean and the chant profane,
Across whose nights a rossignol would cry
The snow-white Olympic swan,
with beak of rose-red agate,
preens his eucharistic wing,
which he opens to the sun like a fan.
Silence of the night , a sad, nocturnal
silence--Why does my soul tremble so?
I hear the humming of my blood,
Yo soy aquel que ayer no más decía
el verso azul y la canción profana,
en cuya noche un ruiseñor había