“Automn ill and adoredYou die when the hurricane blows in the roseriesWhen it has snowedIn the orchard treesPoor automn Dead in whiteness and richesOf snow and ripe fruitsDeep in the skyThe sparrow hawks cryOver the sprites with green hair dwarfsWho've never been lovedInthe far tree-linesThe stags are groaningAnd how I love O season how I love your rumblingThe falling fruits that no one gathersThe wind in the forest that are tumblingAll their tears in automn leaf by leaf The leaves You press A crowd That flows The life That goes”

“Et que j'aime ô saison que j'aime tes rumeursLes fruits tombant sans qu'on les cueilleLe vent et la forêt qui pleurentToutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuilleLes feuillesQu'on fouleUn trainQui rouleLa vieS'écoule”

“Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowd As herds of bellowing buses drive by Love's anguish tightens your throat As if you were never to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monasteryYou are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayerYou make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter crackles The sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your lifeIt's a painting hanging in a dark museumAnd sometimes you go and look at it close up”

“Oh Paris From red to green all the yellow dies away Paris Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the AntillesThe window opens like an orange The beautiful fruit of light("Windows")”

“Vase [Why weep Come back tomorrow There are also poisonous flowers and flowers always open in the evening she loves the cinema she has been in Russia Love married with disdain Pearl-studded watch a trip to Montrouge Maisons- Lafitte and everything finishes in perfumes remember Let the flower bloom and let the fruit rot and let the grain sprout while the storms rage]”

“Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.”

“Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere.”