1. The First of May

It all conjugates the verb “to love.” Look—roses!
I speak of nothing else in all my poetries.
First of May! Love—joyful, hot, jealous, high—
Makes the woods, nests, the flowers, even wolves, sigh;
The tree with its motto which, last autumn, I incised,
Repeats it as its own, as if just improvised;
Old, pensive caves—where the mocking jay laughs—
Twitch heavy brows, purse lips, shaping a heart;
The atmosphere, tender and aromatic, sings
With declarations the land offers to Spring,
Which lovestruck grass whispers to enchanting sky.
Across the blue firmament Day passes by,
The countryside, deeper in love, at crosstrees,
Lavishes odours, and, on the mild breeze,
Sends its fragrant kisses to the returning season.
These bouquets—azure, carmine, saffron, crimson—
Whose breath drifts away, murmuring: “I love you!”
Across the ravine, pond, field, even the furrow,
Scattering splashes of every colour;
And, gifting perfumes, earth has kept the flower—
As if her sighs and tender epistolaries—
Sent to May-month, laughing amid languid trees—
And all the love notes of her garrulous heart,
Had imprinted on a blotting pad its mark!

In the woods, the birds—their voices soft and low—
Sing to the fairies: triolets and rondeaux;
Everything confides sweet secrets to the shade;
Everything loves, whisper-confessing. It could be said
That north, hot south, west to sunset, at the dawn
The flowering hedge, the ivy, and the murmuring spring,
The mountains, the fields, the lakes, and the oaks swaying
Repeat the four winds’ composed quatrain.

Saint-Germain, May 1st, 18..,