Foliage of the deadened murmurs,
Resonant trunks hollowed by age,
The ancient, sorrowful forest
Harmonizes with our melacholy thoughts.

Oh pines, clinging to the edges of abysses,
Deserted nests in broken branches,
Burnt thickets, flowers without dew,
You well know how one suffers!

And when man, a pale passerby,
Weeps in the solitary woods,
Laments of shadow and of mystery
Greet him in tears just like his own.

Good forest! Open promise
Of that exile which life seeks,
I come with a step that is still lively
Into your depths that are still green.

But from a slender birch tree by the path,
A leaf, starting to turn red, grazes
My head and trembles on my shoulder;
For the aging forest,

Knowing# that winter, when everything is stillborn,
Is already close for me as for her,
Gives me the fraternal alms
Of its first fallen leaf!