(In this translation of Paul Verlaine’s « Nevermore », I must say I felt inveigled into adhering to the fixed form by making some unnecessary allowances just in order to respect the rime scheme. It would have been better if I had abandoned the effort at laboriously keeping to the original’s end-rimes. T. Wignesan) br br Souvenirs, souvenirs, what do you want of me? Autumn br Invites the thrush to fly through the air lifeless sans tone, br And the sun beats its rays down: relentless monotone br Over the yellowing wood where claps the North wind’s thunder tone. br br We were walking all by ourselves as if in a dream, br She and I, haïr and thoughts buffeted by the wind’s non-esteem. br All of a sudden, she turned towards me her looks agleam br « Which was your most beautiful day? » did her lively golden voice beam. br br Her voice soft and sonorous, a fresh timbre angelic. br A discreet smile she did redeem as a reaction cyclic, br And her blanched hand I kissed with devoutness.