Nevermore
Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn
makes the thrush fly through colourless air,
and the sun casts a monotonous glare
on the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

We were alone, and walking in dream,
she and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.
Suddenly, turning her troubling gaze on me,
‘Your loveliest day?’ her voice of living gold,

her voice, with its fresh angelic tone, vibrant and sweet.
I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,
and kissed her white hand with devotion.

- Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!
And how charming the murmured emotion
of that first ‘yes’ from lips that we love!

Paul Verlaine (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia II), translated AS Kline