My soul, calm sister, towards thy brow, whereon scarce grieves
An autumn strewn already with its russet leaves,
And towards the wandering sky of thine angelic eye,
Mounts, as in melancholy gardens may arise
Some faithful fountain sighing whitely towards the blue!
--Towards the blue pale and pure that sad October knew,
When, in those depths, it mirrored languors infinite,
And agonising leaves upon the waters white,
Windily drifting, traced a furrow cold and dun,
Where, in one long last ray, lingered the yellow sun.
Another poem comes a little closer to nature, but with what exquisite
precautions, and with what surprising novelty in its unhesitating touch
on actual things!