The storm, departing, leaves trailing clouds— white spume washing blue sky— and cold air. Trees that lately blossomed have turned dark, burdened with new leaves, but the bud-covered dogwoods have held back their full flowering, awaiting a warmer day. No bees buzzed this afternoon, and the few birds abroad were quiet. All the sun's brightness dispelled none of the chill the air bore, and chimneys sent aloft smoke which barely curled, so still was the day. Lawns have grown plush and their green bears the yellow dots of dandelions, but spring has made a brief retreat. As the sun declines, the valley southward is hazed, and there the season lurks where flocks of birds leap from marshes, testing the readiness of the air.
by Juan Ramón Jiménez
The ship, slow and rushing at the same time, can
get ahead of the water
but not the sky.
The blue is left behind, opened up in living silver,
and is ahead of us again.
The mast, fixed, swings and constantly returns
—like an hour hand that points
always to the same hour—
to the same stars,
hour after hour black and blue.
The body as it daydreams goes
towards the earth that belongs to it, from the other earth
that does not. The soul stays on board, moving
through the kingdom it has owned from birth
—translated by Robert Bly