Something invades our blood, intrepid, bright, And urges us to incarnate again Immense, full summer in the fervid kiss That desperately we give each other then. XVII Alas, must we accept the weight of years And find us nothing more than tranquil folk Who give each other infantile caress At eve, when hearth is quick with flame and smoke? Our dear belongings, shall they see us then Creeping from the hearth to wooden chest, To reach the window leaning on the wall, Sitting to give our tottering bodies rest? If such a day must then affirm our ruin And show the torpor brain or body fears, In spite of this fate we shall not complain, But keep within our breasts our captive tears. For we shall guard these eyes of ours to watch For morn to follow night so pitiful, And see the sun of dawn burn on this life, Making of earth itself a miracle. XVIII All little facts, the things of no account, A letter, date, an anniversary, A word that's spoken as on days long past, Exalt, on these long evenings, you and me. We solemnise, we two, these simple things And count and recount all these gems of ours, So that what is left of our high selves May face valiantly these sombre hours. And we are jealous more than it is meet Of these poor, gentle, friendly memories Who seat themselves with us beside the fire With winter flowers laid across thin knees. And the bread of happiness which once We did partake of, now they sit and eat; The bread on which our love has fed so long That now it finds the very crumbs are sweet. XIX Come to our threshold now, oh snow, Strew thy pallid ash, Oh peaceful and slow falling snow; The linden in the garden hangs its branches low And to the sky no flights of wood-larks go. Oh snow, Who warmest and dost shield The corn that is hardly sprung With the moss, with the down Strewn on the spreading field! Silent snow, oh friendly one To houses sleeping in the morning calm, Cover our roof and brush our window-frames; Oh luminous snow, into our very soul To find a way do thou not scorn, Snow that warmest still our last of dreams Like the springing corn. XX When our clear garden lifted up its flow'rs The self-accusations made by each For failure of our love, broke into speech In passionate hours; And needed pardon offered and new peace And explanations of our miseries And tears that wet our sad and truthful eyes Gave love increase. But in these months of dreary rain When all retires to earth again, When even light is fain To find its war with darkness vain, No longer are our souls so strong and proud That, rapturously, they should confess aloud.