Tooth of leaf and saw

By a Stream
Czeslaw Milosz (1911 - present)
(trans. by the author and Robert Hass)
The murmur of clear water on stones,
in a gully deep in a tall forest.
Ferns brighten in the sun on the banks,
the stacked, ungraspable shapes of leaves,
lancet-like, sword-like,
heart-like, shovel-like,
notched, serrated,
saw-toothed--who will express it?
And the flowers! Whitish umbels,
deep blue chalices, bright yellow stars,
roselets, clusters.
To sit and to watch
the bustle of bumblebees, the flight of dragonflies,
the takeoff of a flycatcher,
in the tangle of twigs the hurry of the black beetle.
It seems that I hear the voice of a demiurge:
"Either speechless rocks, as on the first day of creation,
or life, whose condition is death,
and this beauty which elates you."