Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
Alas! the times are far away from the incarnadine phlox
And the proud roses lighting up its gates,
But, however withered and faded it may be — what does it matter! —
I still love it with all my heart, our garden.
Its distress is sometimes dearer and sweeter to me
Than its joy was in the burning days of summer;
Oh! the last perfume slowly fanned away
By its last flower on its last mosses!
I lost my way, this evening, in its winding paths
To touch all its plants with my fervent fingers;
And falling to my knees, among the trembling grass,
I long kissed its damp and heavy soil.
And now that it is dying and now that they come
And spread everywhere, both the mist and the night;
My being seems to have entered into its ruin
And I shall learn my death in understanding its own.
Emile Verhaeren
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-alas-the-times-are-far-away-emile-verhaeren/