Temps Perdu
I never may turn the loop of a road
Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load—
My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain—
And sweeter the rain than a lover to me—
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There’s never a rose spreads new at my door
Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furthest day—
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
