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Poem	When the fine snow with its sparkling grains silts over our threshold, I hear your footsteps wander and stop in the neighbouring room. You withdraw the bright and fragile mirror from its place by the window, and your bunch of keys dances along the drawer of the beech-wood wardrobe. I listen, and you are poking the fire and arousing the embers; and you are arranging about the silent walls the silence of the chairs. You remove the fleeting dust from the workbasket with the narrow feet, and your ring strikes and resounds on the quivering sides of a wine-glass. And I am more happy than ever this evening at your tender presence, and at feeling you near and not seeing you and ever hearing you.
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