Classic Poem

I want to compose pure poetry
Lying down near the sky, as astrologers do;
Up there, next to bell towers, I'll listen in my dreams
To their solemn hymns carried by the wind.
Chin resting in hands, looking down from my garrett,
I'll see workers sing and gossip;
Chimneys, steeples—those masts of the city—
And vast skies that tell of eternity.

How sweet, through the mist, to see the birth
Of a star in the blue, a lamp at a window,
Rivers of smoke rising to heaven,
And the moon pouring down her pale enchantment.
I'll see springs, summers, autumns,
And when winter comes with monotonous snows,
I'll close all windows and shutters
And build my magic palace in the darkness.
I'll dream of bluish horizons,
Of gardens, of fountains weeping on alabaster,
Of kisses, birds singing night and day,
And everything that belongs in a childish story.
Trouble, knocking vainly at my window,
Won't budge me from my desk
Once I've plunged into those delicious depths
Creating Spring with my will,
Drawing a sun from my heart, and turning
My burning thoughts into mild weather.