4
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshipers are still within it.
See how thickly in the transept
The loquacious swallows gather!
Of this temple, they the nuns are,
And the monks are the song-sparrows.
On the stony wreaths and garlands
Multitudes of nests are builded.
And there issue from dark openings
In the curtains of the foliage
Flowers of purple morning-glories
Wild calendulas, red tulips,
Jacinths white as alabaster,
Blossoms of the wild field-daisy,
And, embroidering the drapery
Here and there—deep spots of crimson—
Myrtle blossoms, rich, blood-colored
And the velvets of the mosses,
Greenish black, of tints that vary,
Border every edge and outline
With their tapestries Arabian,
Torn by gusty winds and breezes
Into pierced rosettes, huge trefoils.
Ah, the church is not deserted!
Worshipers are still within it.
Here the flowers their mass are holding!
Do you see how lush the rose-vines
O'er the church steps, worn and rugged,
Spread their branches, climbing, climbing,
In a crowd, the pious peasants?
Early worshipers, the roses!
They are going to the temple;
It is very late already!
To the choir have come the violets,
And of each corolla, swinging,
Now they make a fragrant censer.
Pinks in legions lift their clusters.
Nettles green are now adorning
The 'most holy' of the altar;
