Sunday was Moonday

On blue summer evenings, I'll go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the wheats, walking on thin grass:
Dreamer, I'll feel its freshness at my feet:
I'll let the wind bathe my bare head.
I won't speak, I won't think about anything:
But infinite love will rise in my soul;
And I'll go far, very far, as a bohemian,
Into Nature, — blessed as if with the sun
A.R.