The long painful streets and the years when I
was alone and one!
The walk in Paris, that long street which leads
down to Notre-Dame!
Then, like the young athlete moving toward the Oval in the midst of the eager group of his friends and trainers,
And one whispers to him, and another, taking
his arm, tightens the band around his muscles,
I walked among the hastening feet of my gods!
Fewer sounds in the forest at the summer feast
of St. John,
There is a less audible song in Damascus when to the story of the waters gushing down from the mountains
Is joined the sigh of the desert and the rustling
of the tall plane trees in the free evening air,
Than there are words in this young heart filled
with desire!
O Lord, a young man and the son of woman is
more pleasing to you than a young bull!
And before your sight I was like a wrestler who
bends,
Not because he thinks himself weak, but because
the other is stronger.
You called me by my name
Like someone who knows it, you picked me from
all those of my age.
O Lord, you know how the heart of the young
is full of affection and how it dislikes its defilement and its vanity!
And behold, suddenly, you are someone!
You struck down Moses with your power, but in
my heart you are a being without sin.
O I really am the son of woman! for now reason,
and the teachings of my masters, and absurdity, hold
not a straw
To the violence of my heart and the extended
hands of this small child!
Tears! O heart too weak! O mine of tears that
explodes!
Come, all ye faithful, and worship this newborn child.