"How much do I need the contryside,
Leaves, breezes, gentle slopes!
I lean`gainst you, O tree,
From which the blossoms are filling
Upon my eyes so sleepy.
  I lean against you - margin
Of a sandy stretch of silences,
Following all along time
Rives transparent and green:
Your shadow falling on my arms,
Your freshness felltin my teeth."
   
Cecília Meirelles