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

Calmness

Seems to descend

From the heavens

Which the orb lets iridescent …
 

It is the hour exquisite.

 

L’Heure Exquise.

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