Vespers chime in the town; the banks are deserted, not an isle. Passes a boarding-school group, o poor flesh! Several already have on their winter muffs. One that has neither muff nor fur makes a quite sorry figure all in gray. And see! She breaks from the ranks and runs; O God, what has seized her? She goes and throws herself in the stream. Not a boatman, not a Newfoundland dog.... (Tr. 47) Dismal north wind, screaming downpour and dark stream, and shut houses.... (Tr. 48) A full silence of vibrant gold has descended near the springs which satyrs have troubled; a clear marvel enclosed in the heart of the valleys, if the little singing bird remains silent. Oblivion of the flute, hours of fearless dreams, where thou hast known how to find for thy amorous blood the peacefulness of inhabiting a place odorous with roses, whose sylvan gods make thee arms. There thou goest, composing beautiful books, a credit to the French language and the noble Athens. (Tr. 49) Of that Sophocles, credit to Ferté-Milon. (Tr. 50) Once while riding on a journey, Pensive along the route that displeased me, I found love in the middle of the road In a vagrant's scant attire. (Tr. 51) Brilliant star, Phoebe with outspread wings, O name of night that grows and wanes, favor my way through the gloomy forest where my errant soul takes its modest steps! In the grotto with hollow sounds, whose entrance is ivy-covered, on the rock topped with the familiar she-goat, on the lake, on the pond, on the tranquil waters, on the enamelled banks where reeds moan, she likes to see the trembling of thy melancholy fires. Phoebe, O Cynthia, from the first season my soul was drunk with thy lovely light; observing thy diverse faces in their orb, beneath thy gentle influence, she composed verses. Above Nicias, Eryx, Siris and the sandy Iolchos, Timolus and the grand Epidorus, and Green Sidon, her piety reveres this rock of Latmos where thou loved. (Tr. 52) It is the autumn wind in the lane, sister, hearken, and the fall of willow and beach tree leaves on the water, and the hoar-frost in the valley. And come, like those drooping great ladies, to him who is thinking of thee, in the silence when thy light spinning-wheel dies, O sister of the sweet marjoram. Loose--'tis the hour--thy hair fairer than the hemp thou spinnest.... (Tr. 53) Come with wreathes of primroses in thy hands, O young girls, who mourn the sister dead at dawn. Bells of the valley peal the end of a destiny, and spades are seen gleaming in the morning sun. Come with baskets of violets, O young girls who slightly hesitate in the path of beeches, for fear of the priest's solemn words. Come, the sky is quite sonorous with invisible larks.... 'Tis the festival of the dead, one would say Sunday, the bells ring so gently in the heart of the valley; boys have hidden in the lanes. Thou alone goest to pray at the foot of the white grave.