Littell's Living Age/Volume 149/Issue 1931/Autumn Leaves

the songs I joy in singing, So young, such wafts of perfume bringing, Endured the brunt the world allows, Far from the crowd and all its crushing, Ah! how they bloomed, a garland blushing, How green and fragrant, on my brows!

Now torn from off the tree that beareth, Flowers which the blighting northwind teareth, — Like a dream's leavings pitiable — They wander, scattered hither and thither, In dustiness and mud to wither, At the winds' and the waters' will.

And like dead leaves in autumn showered, I see them, of their bloom deflowered, Blown all along the barren lea; The while a crowd that presses round me, And treads to earth the wreath that crowned me, Goes laughing at the naked tree. « Avant que mes chansons aimées ... »