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Poem	If it were true that a garden flower or a meadow tree could keep some memory of lovers of other times who admired them in their bloom or their vigour, our love in this hour of long regret would come and entrust to the rose or erect in the oak, before the approach of death, its sweetness or its strength. Thus it would survive, victor over funereal care, in the tranquil godship conferred on it by simple things; it would still enjoy the pure brightness cast on life by a summer dawn and the soft rain hanging to the leaves. And if on a fine evening, out of the depths of the plain, a couple came along, holding hands, the oak would stretch out its broad and powerful shade like a wing over their path, and the rose would waft them its frail perfume.
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