Brooks, this is the beginning, the ponds stagnant.
Meltwater coming down from the mountains.
At long last it is driving the saws and the grist mills
For the benefit of the farmers.
Soon linen is being worked: thus, the bleacheries,
As well as the movement of fulling mills and rotary irons.
Water is to be channeled, and steadily
Onto the wheels.
Refined now will be the indigo, the coloring substance,
And the cow dung, mixed with the blood of oxen
Lets the traders profit from the Turkish Red
Of the textiles.
But when everything was quiet here, in the evening,
Below his window, willows and poplars,
Only the clear water of the Soren Brook then was heard by him,
Writing poetry in front the sky teeming with stars,
Singing of innocence below the alpine rock,
Saying to the reconciler, to the way he was there,
Only a chorus we are.
From the summerly, wide open window,
Turkish songs resound where we are walking.
Furs are lying on window sills, being aired.