powerful chests,—all these things make me dream
pleasant dreams. In thinking of these things, I
become almost a little girl again, my soul inundated
and my heart refreshed by innocence and candor,
as a little rain refreshes the little flower too much
burned by the sun, too much dried by the wind.
And at night, while waiting for William,
becoming enthusiastic over the prospects of this
future of pure joys, I made verses:
Petite fleur,
O toi, ma sœur,
Dont la senteur
Fait mon bonheur...
Et toi, ruisseau,
Lointain coteau,
Fréle arbrisseau,
Au bord de l'eau,
Que puis-je dire,
Dans mon délire?
Je vous admire...
Et je soupire ...
Amour, amour,
Amour d’un jour,
Et de toujours! ...
Amour, amour! ...
As soon as William returned, all poesy flew away. He brought me the heavy odor of the barroom, and his kisses, which smelt of gin, quickly broke the wings of my dream. I never wanted to show him my verses. What was the use? He
