Paraphrase

Written in Kensington Gardens

Here in this isolated empty field I rest,
Blocked by long branches on both sides,
And at its crossing, the eye remains,
The dark-tipped, red-trunked, needled shrubs sit!

Creatures develop music, each has their own
Over the enveloping city's buzz,
How lush beneath the limbs it is!
Loudly the quavering sheep-bleats rise!

Occasionally a youth will travel in the pasture
To bring his babysitter his ruined plaything
At times a bird flew above
Buried in her unfamiliar day's work

Down at my feet amazing things go by
What limitless, energetic beings are found
What stirring flowers delicious stems,
A wind-blown woodland, new and clean

The grass on the mountain is never better,
Where the weary fisherman sleeps, reclining

And, simplified of bucket and of fishing pole, 

Numbers his afternoon's reward, the fish.  

In the large planet, which streams by quickly, 

Everyone tries to enjoy life!

but immobile in my crib I

Was exhaled onto by suburban Pan

I, on mankind's wretched cry thrown, 

Wonder sometimes as I listen to them scream

That tranquility has fled from the common man's world

And rests exclusively in the afterlife.  

Although in this place is serenity always renewed

When I who observe them am gone

Even everything in the field passes

The differences of the noiseless day. 

They joyfully sleep they cross!

The flowers near, the birds are full, 

Night descends over the plains

The little boy slumbers snugly in his snug nest

Eased soul of everything! give it to me

to sense among the city's rumble

That there dwells