It is finished: the mocking squirrels, The brilliant butterfly, outraged amongst The quivering stems and the tufts of flowers, Do not know how far this evening’s sky will stretch, Nor that larks have fallen mute to the glory of twilight. Under black curls, I can see a glimmering stream, And I see the blue coat of the gentle trees. And me, I wander through this little garden, Staring at the deep unending flower scents.

From the entanglements of the thornbush, The fabulous petals of magic grace, And I embrace this silence breathing, Oh, whispered melancholy of the world!

• Arthur Rimbaud