Trees, waters, the borders of ditches, the expanse of ripening fields flame beneath the mysterious splendor of the hour of Saturn.
—Now that it is Autumn perhaps some old woman at home, mother or servant-maid,
Thinks of us as she gathers in the washing from the line or sits in the courtyard working at her sewing.
The air still sweet grows fresher; the towering walnut trees
Cover the church with shade and the rooks are drowsing upon the cross!
The Centurion: A gorgonian lamentation fills the mountains and the valleys,
The Bear of night has seized the sun between his paws
And the spacious forests of oaks and pines have shuddered at the sight.
Birds, that pass in the desert day, flee more swiftly, far away, wild geese and herons!
And bearing this news