The Water of the Fota
VIII.Gentle and caressing April breeze
already warmed by early morning sunlight,
you send us, trickling down our throat, the sweet
fragrance of a myriad tufts of violets;
you sing amid long rows of poplar trees
songs that fill the air with soothing words
you go among the ditches and wake dormice
for every flight you put a wing on birds.
All the plants and trees bow down to you
and send you greetings with a fleeting nod
as soon as you go by them or approach;
every land for you becomes a bride
waiting with open arms for you to drop
the flowers stolen from each blooming bush.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)