In those countries, warm and blue, where your God caused
you to be born,
Your task is to light your master's pipe,
To bring flagons of fresh water and scents,
And to chase from his bed the wandering mosquito;
And as soon as the morning makes the plane-trees sing,
To buy pine-apples and plantains in the bazaar.
The whole day, where you will, you wander barefooted,
And hum low some old forgotten tune;
And when evening descends in her scarlet mantle
You softly lay your body on a mat,
Where your fleeting dreams are full of humming-birds,
And always, like yourself, sweet and flowery.