It is going to snow in a few days. I remember
This time last year. My heart, O how it bled!
Had I been asked: 'What ails thee?' I should have said:
'Nothing. Leave me alone. It is December.'
Do not console me. I should not have heard.
If dreams, which were the only wealth I wist,
Leave my dark threshold whereon squats the mist,
I shall be ready, and shall speak no word.
Last night the cricket sang when all was still.
I cannot tell you what he sang about.
His singing made the darkness thicker still.
The sad flame of my candle lengthened out.
You come when the sun sinks low,
accompanied by the hum of bees.
You come laughing with your red mouth
fierce, like the flowers of pomegranates.
A small house with a dog in front ...
O my love! Tonight, this rose is wet.
In the big park, by the rusty gate,
I walk with you in a timeless dream.
The forest paths are muddy, after the rain;
The meadows are soaked through and through again.
The blackbirds in the yellow osiers sing,
The yellow osiers good for basketing.
O God, when You send for me, let it be
Upon some festal day of dusty roads.
I wish, as I did ever here-below
By any road that pleases me, to go
I Love in old days Clara d'Ellébeuse,
The school-girl of old boarding-schools,
Who, on warm evenings, sat beneath the limes,
Reading the magazines of olden times.
Mademe De Warens, you would watch the storm
Folding the dark trees of your sad Charmettes,
Or else you played the spinet, in a fret,
You clever woman whom Jean-Jacques would scold.
The brooms glow in the desolate moors;
on the ochre hills, the heather sings:
But you cannot heal my sad heart or ease
The memory of my poor dead child.