Fine, then, lie in the grass. The thicker it grows
The less conspicuous is the white torso,
That much more futile the long trajectory
Of power's glare; the less glory
The more butterflies here and wasps.

The more softly the word is pronounced
The more ardent, the more miraculous.
The less it dreams of becoming a song
That much nearer it draws to music,
The more burning, more useless.

The less show it makes of its gloom
The more blameless, and sadder,
Not calling for any loud phrases
About that press, that anvil,
Where, so many times, it was smothered.

Love is tragic, life frightening.
The brighter the white against the green ...
I do not know of what I'm guilty.
The more hopeless the times
The stronger my friendship with Apollo.

The less dream of success
The more room for the soul.
Pierce me, arm me,
With the burning joy of a bee.
Like some great hailstone in the grass—fine, then, lie there.