It was springtime when I traversed the sad Galilee and I found it silent beneath a huge shroud of flowers. April showers were still falling and it was truly a desert of green plants, a world of light grasses, taking on new life to the song of countless birds. There, grand memories, ruins and remains of the dead seemed to sleep more deeply under this silent renewal of plant life. In my account, I did not really want to stir them up. On the approaches to Nazareth and the Sea of Tiberias, the ineffable ghost of Christ appeared two or three times, wandering elusive over the infinite carpet of pink flax and pale, yellow marguerites; but I let it fly away amongst my ponderous words. The intimate details of the countryside, the colour, the sounds and the perfumes are all that I have noted down as I passed through. Besides, it is all my elders have left for me in this Holy Land of Galil described so many times by excellent poets.