In the little tired spring,
Weary with the years of bubbling,
Deep down to where the gold sand comes to light
Again,
I see wreaths and wreaths of smiles.
“L’amour quand-même!”—
The gold bird in the cage exclaims.
“L’amour quand-même!”—reiterates the lark
To the dahlias and the petunia buds
In the garden.
“L’amour quand-même!”
Sings the nightingale in the plum-boughs,
Where the clematis shuts the window in
With fragrant fringe.
Once it was a precious stone—
Long, long, ago.