The Four Seasons, Poem by Charles Cros

In spring, it was in the bare woods
That one day we came to know each other.

The buds pushed out green vapor.
Love was a discovery.

Thanks to the lilacs, thanks to the lilies of the valley,
From dreamers we became merry.

Under the wisteria and the cytisus,
Both alone, what is there to say?

We would have said nothing, mignonette,
Without your fragrance that helped us.
II

In summer the lilies and the roses
Envied her hues and her poses,

At night, by the scent of the lindens
We went off alone.

The scent of her body, on the moss,
Is more intoxicating and softer.

On the way back along the wheat,
We were both quite troubled.

Like the wheat the wind brushes,
She bent over on my shoulder.
III

Autumn makes the rustling sounds
Of our tumultuous kisses.

Into the water fall the dry leaves
And onto her eyes, the wild locks.

Here are the peaches, the grapes,
I prefer her cheek and her breasts.

What do I care for the sad and red evening,
When her pouting lip moves?

The wine that flows from the presses
Is less treacherous than her dark eyes.
IV

It is winter. The coal
Flares in my lonely room.

The snow falls on the rooftops.
White! Oh, her beautiful white and cold breasts!

The same trail on the chimneys
As in her scattered tresses.

At the ball, each one politely throws
The ferocious words of forgetting,

The water that sang has frozen,
Love, what boredom replaces you!

Charles Cros

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-the-four-seasons-charles-cros/