The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,Īnd the old aspen with its eternal murmur. With wild vines and chairs made of rattan… Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love! – Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have! I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet, Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet. ‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold, On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum. Makes the thrush fly through colourless air, Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn Rhyme that’s assonant, the friend who’s prudent! Yet down with the nice, and the ordinary! To music’s strains, where fragrances entice,Ĭalmer these days and yet no less ardent,Īnd yet not yield to too great an extent. My desire conjured, where the gold roofs soar, This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Kline © Copyright 2002, 2009, 2010 All Rights Reserved
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