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.