by Paul Verlaine
under this giant tree where the breeze fails
with broken sighs in these gray boughs caressed
by lucent rays of moonlight soft and pale.
Sit here quietly, with lowered eyes,
not thinking; let us dream. Let have their fling
love that wears out and happiness that flies,
while our hair is touched by the stroke of the owl’s wing.
Let us forget to hope. May our souls keep
discreetly bridled so that they may learn
this calmness, this serene death of the sun.
We rest in silent peace, now day is done:
it is not good to trouble in his sleep
Nature, this savage god and taciturn.