It rains gently on the town.
There is weeping in my heart
as it rains on the town.
What languor is this
that pierces my heart?
O gentle noise of the rain
on the ground and the roofs!
For a heart that is troubled,
O the song of the rain!
There is no cause for weeping
in this sickened heart.
What! No treason?
This sorrow has no cause.
Indeed, it is the worst grief
not to know why,
without love or hate,
my heart has so much grief.
The sun, less fierce, shines bright in a thinner sky.
Rocked by a lulling autumn breeze,
The garden rosebushes bend rhythmically.
The air around is full of a sister’s kisses.
For the time being, Nature has left her throne
Of irony, serenity and splendor:
Toward her perverse, rebellious subject, man,
She descends mild through the fullness of yellow air.
With the hem of her cloak spotted by the abyss,
She deigns to wipe the sweat from our brow,
And her immortal form, her soul’s eternities,
Give our slack hasty hearts calm and strength too.
The ancient branches, their cool swaying,
The widened horizon full of indistinct
Song, even the joyous flights of birds and clouds, everything
Today consoles and sets free.—Let us think.
The long sobbing
Of autumn strings,
Wounds my heart
With a languor that
When the hour rings,
Days long gone
With my weeping;
And then I go
On an ill wind to
Carry me off
Here and there
In just the manner
Of a dead leaf.
The sounding ocean
Throbs beneath the eye
Of the moon veiled darkly
And throbs again,
While a violent sinister
Its long zigzag brilliant,
Slits a sky of bister,
And each wave,
In convulsive bounds,
Goes, comes, shouts, glistens,
The length of reefs,
And in the sky
Where the tempest ranges,
The thunder roars
Spilled through the meadow by
An enfeebled dawn,
Of setting suns.
Rocks my heart to oblivion
With sweet melody
Amid setting suns.
And strange dreams
Like suns, setting,
Over shores, passing
Unceasingly, passing like some
Huge suns, like them
Over shores, setting.
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!