By the vines already black the thrush has taken quarry;
October, upon the woods, throws its coat of gold…
Heaped up years gazing upon the gate, 
They dream that beyond lies their sweetest treasure.
They have risked this evening a backward wingbeat;
Regret kept them from the springtime flight:
Both want to know, wandering under the clearing,
If the echo says “always” and if the water flows still.
And the joyful stream reflects their image…
“Love, look [into] this mirror, how it does you homage!”
“I see there snow, lover… no more tender professions!”
But he, in a kiss that a tear from his eye wets:
“Go, these are silver threads fallen from [the] distaff
That the Virgin has left at times upon your hair!”