The hounds of despair, the hounds of the autumnal wind,
Gnaw with their howling the black echoes of evenings.
The darkness, immensely, gropes in the emptiness
For the moon, seen by the light of water.
A moon, with vacant, chilling eye, stares
At the winter, enthroned vast and white upon the hard ground;
The night is an entire and translucent azure;
The wind, a blade of sudden presence, stabs.
O la splendeur de notre joie,
Tissée en or dans l'air de soie!
He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
Sees it draw near