The little river, blue However little the sky has azure, From here is another league, Then pours its pure flow into the river. Bigger, it would be less sweet, She wouldn't have the slowness Who in the grass leads and grows Its delicate and singer course. She would have no meadows Greener so close to hand, No more than these flowery banks Where barely marks the way. Nor the silence so peaceful, Nor among the plants of the waters The almost invisible narrow channel Between the rushes and the reeds. merat