Temps Perdu

I never may turn the loop of a road  Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying,

But my heart drags down with an ancient load-  My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain-  And sweeter the rain than a lover to me-But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;  My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There's never a rose spreads new at my door  Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at

But I know I have known its beauty before,  And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May  Or a sycamore bared for a new

Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day-  What is it, what is it,

I almost remember?