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Juan Ramón Jiménez

My soul is kin to the gray
sky and the withered leaves.
Inward-turning autumn sun,
do not touch me with your grief.

--The trees in the garden are
heavily laden with mist.
My heart divines among them
the lover it cannot find;
and in the wet ground dry leaves
open withered hands to me.
If only my soul could be
a leaf lost among these leaves!

The sun has sent down a ray of strange gold to the trees,
a floating sunbeam, a soft
light for the secret things.

--What tenderness in the last
sunlight for the dying leaves!
An endless harmony strays
slowly along the paths,
an eternal symphony
of music and fragrances
that goldens the garden with
a more divine spring.

And that light of mist and gold,
passing through the withered leaves,
creates in my heart a rainbow
of vague, hidden loveliness.

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