Strewn with leaves at the end of the garden’s fair space,
And I read in my face that those days are now past.
No. 4.
And this is also from page 28 of a thick book, full of similar Poems, by M. Montesquiou.
BERCEUSE D’OMBRE.
Des formes, des formes, des formes
Blanche, bleue, et rose, et d’or
Descendront du haut des ormes
Sur l’enfant qui se rendort.
Des formes!