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All belief dwells in the heart of our love.
To the least thing we bind an ardent thought:
to the awakening of a bud, the decline of a rose,
to the flight of a frail and beautiful bird which, by turns
arrives or vanishes, in light or shadow.
A nest that comes apart at the roof’s mossy edge
and that the wind wrecks, fills the spirit with dread.
An insect that bites at the hearts of hollyhocks
strikes fear: all is anguish, all is hope.
Let reason, with her bitter and soothing snow,
suddenly chill these charming torments,
what matter, let us accept them without knowing all
the false, the true, the evil, the good they portend;
let us be content to feel as children,
to believe in their power, fatal or triumphant;
and let us guard ourselves, shutters closed,
from those who think they know all.
You said to me, one evening, words so lovely
that doubtless the flowers inclining towards us
suddenly loved us and one of their number,
to touch us both, dropped upon our knees.
You spoke to me of times to come when our years,
like over-ripe fruits, would let themselves be gathered in,
of how the knell of destinies would clearly ring,
how we would love each other, as we felt ourselves age.
Your voice enclosed me like a cherished embrace,
and your heart burned, so calmly beautiful
that in this moment, fearless, I might have seen loom
those tortuous roads that lead towards the tomb.