I was not thinking of Rose; 
Rose came with me into the woods;
We were talking about something, 
but I do not know what.

I was cold as marble; I walked 
with distracted steps;
I spoke of flowers, of trees; 
Her eye seemed to say, “After?”

The dew offered its pearls, 
the copse its parasols.
I was going; I listened to the blackbirds, 
and Rose to the nightingales.

I, sixteen years old, and with a morose manner, 
she, twenty; her eyes shone,
The nightingales sang to Rose, 
and the blackbirds whistled at me,

 ... 

I did not know what to say to her; 
I followed her in the woods,
She smiled from time to time 
and sometimes sighed.

I only saw that she was beautiful only 
when leaving the great silent forest.
"So, let us not think about it anymore!" she said. 
Since then, I always think about it.