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Far from birds, flocks and village girls,
I drank on my haunches some heather amid,
Ringed by tender hazel woods,
In afternoon fog green and tepid.
What could I drink in that young Oise,
Elms and lawn sans flower sans voice, sky cloudy?
What draw from the gourd of the colocasia?
Some golden flat liquor, that makes you sweaty.
Thus, a poor inn-signboard I’d have made.
Then a storm changed the sky unto nightfall.
Those were dark lands, lakes, staves,
Colonnades under blue night, railroad terminals.
Water disappeared from the woods on sands virgin.
The wind of heaven made every pond a rink...
Now! like a fisher of gold or seashells,
To say I had no care to drink!
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