The dead kisses of departed years have put their
seal on your face, and, beneath the melancholy
and furrowing wind of age, many of the roses in
your features have faded.
I see your mouth and your great eyes glow no more
like a morning of festival, nor your head slowly
recline in the black and massive garden of your
hair.
Your dear hands, that remain so gentle, approach
no more as in former years with light at their
finger-tips to caress my forehead, as dawn the
mosses.
Your young and lovely body that I adorned with
my thoughts has no longer the pure freshness of
dew, and your arms are no longer like the bright
branches.
Alas! everything falls and fades ceaselessly;
everything has changed, even your voice; your
body has collapsed like a pavise, and let fall
the victories of youth.
But nevertheless my steadfast and earnest heart
says to you: what are to me the years made
heavier day by day, since I know that nothing in
the world will disturb our exalted life, and that
our soul is too profound for love still to depend
on beauty?