translated by Richard Ronan

The rude wind the other night cast down poor Love

from where He posed in His most private pocket of the park,

drawing taut His malignant bow and slyly smiling—

Oh that look that could and did make us dream away the days.

The wind the other night brought Him down,

marble chips strewn jumbled at the murmur of dawn,

so sad to see, the pedestal widowed, pointless,

the ever-effacing name of its sculptor passing

further into the green shadow of trees.

Oh it chills the heart to see the upright plinth remain,

the grieving recollections that march and march

across my eyeless stare, profound affections

evoking and end all fatal and so alone.

Sad, of course—and you? Surely you are touched

by so sobbing a tableau? though somehow

your distracted eye can be caught

by a gold and purple butterfly batting its powder

above the mere debris that’s tossed across the lawn.