Here are the charming places where my soul delighted
Passoit to contemplate Sylvie
These quiet moments so gently lost.
Boileau.
O fields full of silence,
Where my happy childhood
Still had days
All threads of gold!
O my old Font-Georges,
Who do the robins go to?
And the sweet nightingale
Were taking their flight!
White house where the vine
Twisted in a long line
Its drinking foliage
Crying from the roof!
O clear cold spring,
That overshadowed, old and stiff,
A vigorous walnut
Half hollow!
Sources! cool fountains!
Who, sweet to my sorrows,
Once quivered
Just my voice!
Basin where the washers
Singed carefree
By beating on their bench
White linen!
O century-old mountain ash,
Including three claps of thunder
Had left them all naked
The gray forehead!
Arbors and seams,
Green retreats
Of moving poplars
To all the winds!
O purpurine vines,
Whose, along the hills,
The accumulated vines
Were swollen;
Where, when autumn comes,
The half-naked Harvest
Around the press
Danced in the evening!
O wild rose bushes,
Throwing into the ravines,
Like an oak the acorn,
Their bloody fruit!
Whispering osier garden,
Where the woodpigeon is frightened,
Willow with blue foliage,
Distant on fire!
Branches heavy with cherries!
Surprise harvesters
Half-legged in the water
Clear stream!
Dens, paths, fountains,
Acre perfumes and plains,
Shades and rocks
Often sought after!
Streams! forests! silence !
O my childhood loves!
My soul, without witnesses,
Loves you less
That this gloomy garden
Without greenery and without roses
And these dark massifs
Ancient yew trees,
And this sandy path,
Where I had ineffable happiness,
For the first time,
To hear his voice!
Where dreamy, the friend
Gently obeyed,
Leaning on my arm,
spoke softly,
Thoughtful and collected,
And from a picked flower
Breaking the heart discreet
With a distracted finger,
At a time when the stars
Shivering under their veils
Embroider the changing sky
Of silver flowers.
