The moon white

Glows in the woods;

From each sprout

Comes forth a voice

Below the arbors …

O my precious.

The pond does reflect,

Profound mirror,

The silhouette

Of a black willow

Where wind does whimper …

Let us dream! It is the hour.

A vast and fond


Seems to descend

From the heavens

Which the orb lets iridescent …

It is the hour exquisite.


L’Heure Exquise.