I want, to be able pure poems to write,
To sleep near the sky like star gazers at night,
To dream near the belfries, enchanted and filled
By their solemn anthems diffused by the wind.
With chin cupped in hands from my attic to see
The workshop which chatters and sings and feels free;
The chimneys, the steeples, these masts of the town,
The skies making people in fancy to drown.
How nice is to see through the mists a star bright
And a lamp at the window, burning still in the night,
The rivers of coal rising up in the air,
The moon pouring down its pale charm everywhere.
The summers and autumns will quietly go;
When winter arrives with its white and dull snow
I'll close all the doors and pull down the blind
And build lofty castles at night in my mind.
I'll dream all the time of blue distant horizons,
Alabaster small fountains which weep in the gardens,
And kisses, and birds, chirping loudly and rife,
The pure love affairs we cherish in life.
The bustle, enticing, at the window will drum,
With my head on the desk, I shall sit still and numb,
For I'll dive in the sea of exquisite delight
Of evoking the spring with my will and my might,
Of bringing the sun near my heart and create
Of my fiery dreams an abode warm and great.
