O my heart! it will be in blue and torrid August.
Weary, you will place on the boxwood chest
your scissors, which will catch the light.
You will let your body fall back.
You will close your lashes over your lavender eyes 
with which Summer will seem to perfume your room.
It will be I don't know what time in the afternoon:
the hour when the burning wasp goes to drink in the wells.
I will arrive, dazzled by the huge sun.
I will see you thus, O hive filled with dawn,
molded by sleep in your chaste dress.
And I will very gently approach you,
and, without disturbing you, I will place in your lap
strawberries and bread and the sugar of bees.
Soon, rousing yourself from this half-sleep,
your lips will open upon these fruits and this honey 
like a tender rose caressed all over
or like a half-opened apricot full of incense.
O household friend, raspberry of the forests,
wandering red riding-hood who feeds on berries,
O you who at times evoke to my eyes 
the engraving where Perrette has spilled her milk:
you will never tell me how much you were overcome
by that siesta in which Summer presses down with its delirium.
You will get up again. You will look at me.
And then, bursting with a sob, you will feel 
your own smile smiling in my heart.