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Brittany
For the joyful blood to tame the gloomy spirit,
It is necessary, all perfumed with the salt of the tastes,
That the Atlantic breath fills your lungs;
Arvor offers you its capes that the white sea waters.
The gorse flowers and the heather is already pink.
The land of old clans, dwarves and demons,
Friend, keeps you corny, on the granite of the mountains,
The man who stands still by the immutable thing.
Come on. Come on. Everywhere you will see, through the moors of Arèz,
Climbing towards the dreary sky, impassable cypress trees,
The menhir under which lies the ashes of the Brave;
And the Ocean, which rolls in a bed of golden algae
Is the voluptuous and the great Occismor, will
rock your sad heart to its serious murmur.
José-Maria de Heredia, The Trophies
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