Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon couer
D'une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blene, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure.
Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deca, dela,
Pareil a la
Feuille morte.
Autumn begins:
her violins
sigh and sob,
They fill my breast
with dull unrest,
leaden throb.
I gasp, I pale,
my senses fail;
slow hours creep.
I think upon
days that are gone,
and I weep.
My course is blind;
by an ill wind
my thoughts are hurled
now here, now there,
as in the air
dead leaves
whirled.
"Thought is the labour of the intellect, reverie is its pleasure."
VICTOR HUGO
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