Perhaps, when my last day comes, perhaps, if only
for a moment, a frail and quavering sun will
stoop down at my window.
My hands then, my poor faded hands, will even so
be gilded once again by his glory; he will touch
my mouth and my forehead a last time with his
slow, bright, deep kiss; and the pale, but still
proud flowers of my eyes will return his light
before they close.
Sun, have I not worshipped your strength and your
brightness! My torrid, gentle art, in its supreme
achievement has held you captive in the heart of
my poems; like a field of ripe wheat that surges
in the summer wind, this page and that of my
books confers life on you and exhalts you:
O Sun, who bring forth and deliver, O immense
friend of whom our pride has need, be it that at
the new, solemn and imperious hour when my old
human heart will be heavy under the proof, you
will come once more to visit it and witness.