Romance, Poem by Charles Cros

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Sandalwood CasketPeriod 19th century

To Philippe Burty

The morning blue
Makes the stars grow pale.
In the distant air
The mist has set its veils.
This is the hour when,
To the clear sound of waterfalls,
There come to dance in a ring,
On the meadow, the Dryads.

Mocking morning,
Outside everything is rose.
But in my heart
Reigns a morose weariness.
For I have sometimes,
On his arm, at this hour,
Run through this wood.
Alone now, I weep there.

Day appears,
The mist is torn,
And the forest
Is seen purple and golden.
But, to mock
The sorrow that oppresses me,
I hear twittering
The birds in jubilation.

Charles Cros

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