That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays.
Quella sera, andando a letto, dimenticai di prepararmi, con la fantasia di Barmecide, la cena di patate fritte ben calde, o di pane bianco e di latte munto allora, che solevo concedere al mio stomaco vuoto. Mi contentai, invece del cibo, di guardare i mille quadri ideali, di cui la mia fantasia popolava le tenebre, e mi pareva che quei quadri fossero tutti opera mia.