Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one:to her I send the coffin of lightest wood.
Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome;it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely:it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts.
It knows a French song about love,
I sang it in autumnwhen I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters to morning.
A fine boat is that coffin carved in the coppice of feelings.
I too drift in it downbloodstream, younger still than your eye.
Now you are young as a bird dropped dead in March snow,now it comes to you, sings you its love song from France.
You are light: you will sleep through my spring till it's over.
I am lighter:in front of strangers I sing.
