|
|
November
Autumn Poem
This is the beautiful late summer,
The flowers have lost their scent.
The flowers no longer have fresh colours,
their bright colours are extinct.
Many of the buttons that are close to opening
close to withering.
Autumn has put on its austere veil,
it is no longer a happy place.
Near the tall and proud dahlias,
Who erect their various bouquets,
We see only dark thoughts,
And nuanced chrysanthemums.
In the clear, undressed
groves The songbirds have kept silent.
On the ground the chestnut rolls,
And on the walls the vine bleeds.
The lawns are cold and wet,
the foliage already rusty;
the wind on the ground scatters them,
the wind or the next shower.
The air is humid and penetrating,
the garden is only a dying one.
The sun, through the mist,
Seems like a red censer smoking;
and nature is in this
solemn place like a farewell.
Let us leave, my son, this quiet place; let us
return to the great city.
Over there, sheltered from the crowds, let'
s go wait for spring.
But I hear a graze of wings
and plaintive ritorns...
Does this sweet bird regret, as we
do, the last April?
Amélie Dewailly (Mrs. Gustave-Emile Mesureur)
Our Children Poetry - 1885
|
