The years' dark valleys
I have slipped between
To a park with alleys
Of close-clipped green

Here's a marble Love weathered
By sunlight and rain;
Like a dove blue-feathered
Shines a lady's bright train.

A flower, ashes
Stirred to flame, springs;
A shower flashes,
And a bird sings.

Dorimène, dreaming,
Listens, looks down;
Like rain streaming
Glistens her gown.

Hands white and waxen,
Each nail stained rose;
Hair bright and flaxen
Under pale snows.

Silver clings the powder
To her blond hair.
The bird sings louder
By the pond there.

The roses glow yellow,
And the skies are pearl;
Jacotot, poor fellow!
Sighs for this girl

Who spurns her lover
And her flowered age
As she turns over
A tear-showered page.

“Ah! le beau roman
D'Epiaxe! Hélas!
Le grand Cyrus son amant!
Tout passe! Tout lasse!”

Alas! so pass heroes!
Proud Love lies dead!
And above, Eros
Cries with bowed head.