Translation:To the Reader's Ear

It was not passion, It was a vague tenderness... That which sickly children inhale, Those delerious times and those pale nights. The lone spirit On being touched sings: When love agitates it powerfully It quivers, it meditates, it withdraws and is silent. Passion had it been In truth; these pages At another time more happily written, Would not have verses but tears. Al oído del lector