Now that the shutter of the dusk
—Begins to tremble in its groove,
I am constrained to strip the husk
—From everything I truly love.

So short a time remains to taste
—The ivory pulp, the seven pips,
My heart is happy without haste
—With revelation at its lips.

So calm a beauty shapes the core,
—So grave a blossom frames the stem,
In this last minute and no more
—My eyes alone shall eat of them.