There's a green hollow where a river singsSilvering the torn grass in its glittering flight,And where the sun from the proud mountain flingsFire and the little valley brims with light.
A soldier young, with open mouth, bare head,Sleeps with his neck in dewy water cress,Under the sky and on the grass his bed,Pale in the deep green and the light's excess.
He sleeps amid the iris and his smileIs like a sick child's slumbering for a while.Nature, in thy warm lap his chilled limbs hide!
The perfume does not thrill him from his rest.He sleeps in sunshine, hand upon his breast,Tranquil with two red holes in his right side.
