Autumn Roses, Poem by Charles-Nérée Beauchemin

Poem by Charles-Nérée Beauchemin Collection Patrie intimePeriod 19th century

On branches the air rusts and the frost turns to bronze,
As by an unheard-of prodigy of the sun,
With even more languor and more charm still,
The roses of the flowerbed open their vermilion heart.

In its golden basket, August gathered the last ones:
The purple petals have strewn the grass.
But now, suddenly, the springtime clumps
Perfume the mornings of the late season.

The groves are delighted, the sky itself is astonished
To see, on the rosebush that will not die,
Despite the wind, the rain and the autumn rime,
The buds, all swollen with a red blood, bloom.

In these flowers that the melancholy evening spreads out,
It is the soul of withered springs that, for a day,
Rises again, and from corolla to corolla breathes out,
Like sighs of dream and smiles of love.

Late bloomings of the declining garden,
You have the exquisite sweetness and the fragrance
Of old memories, so sweet, despite the thorn
Of dead illusion and departed happiness.

Charles-Nérée Beauchemin

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