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Poem	"Hours of bright morning," "Hours of afternoon," hours that stand out superbly and gently, whose dance lengthens along our warm garden-paths, saluted at passing by our golden rose-trees; summer is dying and autumn coming in. Hours girt with blossom, will you ever return? Yet, if destiny, that wields the stars, spares us its pains, its blows and its disasters, perhaps one day you will return, and, before my eyes, interweave in measure your radiant steps; And I will mingle with your glowing, gentle dance, winding in shade and sun over the lawns —like a last, immense and supreme hope—the steps and farewells of my "hours of evening."
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