In Brittany, about the time of milking,
They call the cows along the tinkling twilight,
“Ho, Flower, O Idleness, O Pail of Plenty,
Ho, Feet of Silver!”

So we within a land as blue and gentle,
Give little tender names to things that please us.
Such name we have for you, O little ringed one,
O Eye of Silver!

My little Silver-eye, the boughs are empty.
The leaves have gone the way of leaves in winter,
But you go glimmering across the branches.
What faith upholds you?

Have you a hint that Spring has left its gateway?
You fly as if you bore the freight of Summer,
As if you dripped from little wing and shoulder,
A spilth of blossom!