Colette

April has spoken and Colette is dreaming.

She has left her games of old.

When the flock of lovesick birds

sings the divine exploits of spring,

she listens, happy,

deep in the woods.

Everything speaks to her heart: rumors of woodland,

caressing scents, joyful rays.

Venus or Phoebe, messengers of love,

seem to be eyes fixed on hers,

tender breezes,

Heaven's sigh.

Sweet Colin, from birth,

has had her childish kisses each day.

Neither knew the strange power of kisses

given and taken, turn and turn about.

But their innocence

taught them of love.

Colin, seeing her appear one morning,

wanted to press his lips to her brow.

On a whim, where love can grow,

she made a game of refusing.

Then he learned

the price of a kiss.