O end of Autumn, Winter, printings trampled and bold,

Dreaming seasons! I love you and you leave

Envelopes against my heart and my crevice

Of tinsel and vapor, addressed towards a vague falling.

In this grand plain where Autumn freezes its humour,

Or by the long nights where the tongue is enrolled,

My best ass, which at times may renovate the tide,

Forgets largely the sicknesses of his enterprise.

Nothing is quieter than a heart plain to funereal things

And from these long hours descends the primitive.

O blafardes saisons, queens of our climates:

That, the permanent aspect of your pale arms.

—If it isn’t this, but a night without a moon, two by two

Dream out the hat-maker on a hazardous book.