In the Garden

My daughter, with her dog, plays in the garden's wide expanse.
Her mother is away — so this is the hour of the girl set free.
Trampling the grass, she has broken the established rules,
And twisted the necks of the branches of the elegant shrubs —
Leafy branches, now become a swing made for her play.
She sprinkled them so lavishly she left the thirsty drowned;
Whoever saw her would have thought she was dousing a fire with water...
Many a rose she fell upon — she who is the rose's own sister —
And many a nightingale she teased till the squeezing choked its breath.
Her dog, who answers for her, is anxious, gulping hard,
Afraid of what her recklessness may cost his little companion's behind...
And I, in my seat, am the happiest creature alive:
I look the other way, yet my eyes do not leave her for a minute.
In her face I behold my own face, my stock, and my nature.
Behind my spectacles there glistened a gentle welling of thanks —
A lover's tear that the beloved's laughter cannot hold back,
A tear that poured the dreams out upon the eyelid of truth,
A tear that washes away the sins of old passions,
A tear that entreats fate and begs bounty of its brazen face.
Would that fate might gather my whole life into these brief hours in the garden.