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Like a screaming flight of birds in turmoil,
All my memories fall upon me,
Fall among the yellow
foliage of my heart reflecting its trunk folded with an alder
To the purple tain of the water of Regrets,
Which melancholy flows near,
Fall, and then the bad
rumor That a sweaty breeze when it comes up soothes,
is extinguished by degrees in the tree, so much so
that after a moment we hear nothing more,
nothing more than the voice celebrating the Absent,
nothing more than the voice - oh so languid!-
And, in the sad splendor of a pale and solemn rising moon
, a melancholic and heavy summer
night,
full of silence and darkness,
cradles on the azure that a gentle wind touches
The tree that shudders and the bird that cries.
Paul Verlaine,
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