Promenade, Poem by Charles Cros

To Emmanuel des Essarts.

It is not since yesterday that exquisite poses
Revealed her to me, one day as I dreaming
Went to listen to the songs of the wind.

It is not since yesterday that the rosy tints
That pass sometimes over her flowering cheek
Spoke to me of morning, dawn, freshness,

That her clear blue eyes and her hair
Black, on her white neck and brow,
Have given birth in me to troubling desires,

That, in her rest and in her bearing,
An absolute charm, chaste, imperious,
For any other than Her has veiled my eyes.

It is not since yesterday. Then the course of things
Grew dark. I believed the roses forever
Dead at the brutal plowing of the cannon.

Charles Cros

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