Chanson d’automne

Autumn Song

LONG sobbing winds,
The violins
Of autumn drone,
Wounding my heart
With languorous smart
In monotone.

Choking and pale,
When on the gale
The hour sounds deep,
I call to mind
Dead years behind,
And I weep.

And I, going,
Borne by blowing
Winds and grief,
Flutter, here— there,
As on the air
The dying leaf.

Translated by Bergen Weeks Applegate
from Paul Verlaine: His Absinthe-tinted Song (1916)