Between pines, a pause

in the forest, transparent, yet visible,

like how no, in its nothing

is still an answer, is the water

I could not give her, the wish

taken out of the well; and her bones

left to vanish in their circle

become the circle, are the clearing

I approach. And when at last I am alone,

I ask her death to hold me, the way air holds up

a bird above its home. Or how my seat, when I stood up

became empty, and remained—in those moments

when she asked and I walked toward her—both an end

and a waiting,

and an end to the waiting.

Les sanglots longs

Des violons

De l’automne

Blessent mon coeur

D’une langueur

Monotone.

Tout suffocant

Et blême, quand

Sonne l’heure,

Je me souviens

Des jours anciens

Et je pleure;

Et je m’en vais

Au vent mauvais

Qui m’emporte

Deçà, delà,

Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

 

Autumn Song

translated by Arthur Symons

When a sighing begins

In the violins

Of the autumn-song,

My heart is drowned

In the slow sound

Languorous and long

Pale as with pain,

Breath fails me when

The hours toll deep.

My thoughts recover

The days that are over,

And I weep.

And I go

Where the winds know,

Broken and brief,

To and fro,

As the winds blow

A dead leaf.

To live without the one you love
an empty dream never known
true happiness except as such youth

watching snow at window
listening to old music through morning.
Riding down that deserted street

by evening in a lonely cab
     past a blighted theatre
oh god yes, I missed the chance of my life

     when I gasped, when I got up and
        rushed out the room
          away from you.