Memory, memory, what do you want from me?
Autumn made the thrush fly through the dull air,
and the sun darted a monotonous ray
over the yellowing wood where the north wind is loud.

We were by ourselves and walked dreaming,
she and I, our hair and thoughts in the wind.
Suddenly, turning her touching gaze upon me:
”What was your loveliest day?” said her voice of living gold,

Her gentle, resonant voice with the fresh angelic notes.
A discreet smile gave her her reply,
and I kissed her white hand devoutly.

– Ah! how full of perfume the first flowers are!
And with what a charming murmur the first yes sounds,
coming from beloved lips!

Paul Verlaine