And every year, when we arrived at Combray, on Easter morning, after the sermon, if the weather was fine, I would run there to see (amid all the disorder that prevails on the morning of a great festival, the gorgeous preparations for which make the everyday household utensils that they have not contrived to banish seem more sordid than ever) the river flowing past, sky-blue already between banks still black and bare, its only companions a clump of daffodils, come out before their time, a few primroses, the first in flower, while here and there burned the blue flame of a violet, its stem bent beneath the weight of the drop of perfume stored in its tiny horn.
Herrira iritsi eta biharamunean bertan, Pazko igandekari, sermoiaren ostean-eguraldi ona izanez gero-, haraxe joaten nintzen ni laster batean, festaburu-goiz bateko prestakizun arranditsuen anabasak sukaldeko tresna narrasak are narrasago irudiarazten dituenean, zer ikustera eta, ibai hura, jadanik zeru-urdinez jantzia etorri zetorrena, txairo asko paseatzen ari lur oraindik beltz eta biluzien artean, sasoi aurretik iritsitako kuku-aldraren bat eta udaberri-lore goiztiarrak lagun bakar, nahiz eta han-hemenka moko urdindun bioletaren batek edo bestek ere bere zurtoina makurtzera utzi erpinean jasaten ari zèn ihintz-tantoaren zamak erasanda.