(For your dead wife, her friend) br 2 November, 1877 br br - 'On the forgotten woods when sombre winter passes br You complain, lonely threshold's prisoner, br That this double sepulchre which is to be our pride br Alone with the lack of great posies is loaded. br Without hearing Midnight cast its vain number, br A vigil exalts you to continue awake br Until in the arms of the old armchair br The last fireglow has illumined my Shade. br He who would oft have the Visitor should not br By too many flowers charge the tomb that my finger br Lifts with the lassitude of a force defunct. br Soul trembling at the so clear hearth to be seated, br To live again it suffices that I borrow from your lips br The breath of my name murmured the evening long.