I saw, one day, a mockingbird, in the Autumn,

revolving, in the ground, leaves and flowers

And, seeing them withered, almost without odours,

it intoned, unhappy, one elegy

— it loved the Spring — of nostalgia.

To the sad mockingbird makes company

my heart; because they have affinity

my songs with its resentful lament.

My heart intones, abandoned,

the long liturgy of a groan,

seeing again the fallen leaves of the past —

and the withered flowers in that there is still numens

of rosy, beautiful, and simple dreams,

full of inspirations and of perfumes