.webp)
The stones have worn away the tarnished gold of the buskin,
The crook of the staff has cramped your weary hand, evening after evening! and your steps have wandered along the path from the threshold of the house to the silent wood.
Have you not gathered the pale flowers to adorn the urn where the ashes of days dissolve and accumulate? Merciful fate has granted you the grace
of seeing at last the Star rise in the nocturnal sky!
Listen—the water, the wind, the shadow—all your soul trembles, assimilates itself, vegetates, and cries out through the mighty brass and the magical strings,
And Music, in the depths of those evenings when you dream upon yourself, at last master of lethargic destinies,
weaves from your Pasts the fabric of your Dreams!
Henri de Regnier, 1893
