Rhyme IX
GUSTAVO ALDOLFO BÉCQUER
The gentle breeze with a whispered cry
Kisses the water it ripples in fun;
The radiant clouds in the western sky
Are purple and gold from the kiss of the sun;
a flame slips round a tree trunk nigh
To kiss with ardour another one;
And the willow, trailing low its leaves,
Returns to the river the kiss it receives.
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