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Poem	Although autumn this evening along the paths and the woods' edges lets the leaves fall slowly like gilded hands; Although autumn this evening with its arms of wind harvests the petals and their pallor of the earnest rose-trees; We shall let nothing of our two souls fall suddenly with these flowers. But before the flames of the golden hearth of memory, we will both crouch and warm our hands and knees. To guard against the sorrows hidden in the future, against time that makes an end of all ardour, against our terror and even against ourselves, we will both crouch near the hearth that our memory has lit up in us. And if autumn involves the woods, the lawns and the ponds in great banks of shadow and soaring storms, at least its pain shall not disturb the inner quiet garden where the equal footsteps of our thoughts walk together in the light.
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