I found pleasure without addiction,
Shrugging off debilitating love and desire,
In a green, shadowy forest, which last year
Was already gone, with the same green fire.
No need to heap up leaves
With poems of polite, sighing, words.
I have already sent my love ahead,
To be picked apart by the birds.
Perfumes touch me in idleness.
I find pleasure in small perfumed flowers,
Spreading their small perfumes,
As I hold—and am held by—sleeping green hours,
Happy in their drowsiness, in no hour remaining,
The first hour, one forgotten flower, the fled hour staining.
