Although autumn this evening along the paths and
the woods' edges lets the leaves fall slowly like
gilded hands;
Although autumn this evening with its arms of
wind harvests the petals and their pallor of the
earnest rose-trees;
We shall let nothing of our two souls fall
suddenly with these flowers.
But before the flames of the golden hearth of
memory, we will both crouch and warm our hands
and knees.
To guard against the sorrows hidden in the
future, against time that makes an end of all
ardour, against our terror and even against
ourselves, we will both crouch near the hearth
that our memory has lit up in us.
And if autumn involves the woods, the lawns and
the ponds in great banks of shadow and soaring
storms, at least its pain shall not disturb the
inner quiet garden where the equal footsteps of
our thoughts walk together in the light.