The evening falls, the moon is golden.
Before the day ends, go gaily into the garden and
pluck with your gentle hands the few flowers that
have not yet bowed sadly towards the earth.
Though their leaves may be wan, what matters! I
admire them and you love them, and their petals
are beautiful, in spite of all, on the stalks
that bear them.
And you went away into the distance among the
box-trees, along a monotonous path, and the
nosegay that you plucked trembled in your hand
and suddenly quivered; and then your dreaming
fingers devoutly gathered together these
glimmering autumn roses and wove them with tears
into a pale and bright and supple crown.
The last light lit up your eyes, and your long
step became sad and silent.
And slowly in the twilight you returned with
empty hands to the house, leaving not far from
our door, on a damp, low hillock, the white
circle that your fingers had formed.
And I understood then that in the weary garden
wherethrough the winds will soon pass like
squadrons, you desired for the last time to adorn
with flowers our youth that lies there dead.