My cousins, on Sundays, come to cut roses
and to ask me for some book of verses in French.

They move about the garden lawn, cutting flowers,
straight from the pages of Musset or Samain.

They love pretty phrases and clear bright mornings.

An imperturbable statue can thrill them through and through.
They are waitmg for the coming of the autumn evenings
because through the window-panes everything looks gold…

And they come to cut roses on Sundays… They know
that the echo of their voices is pleasing to me.

Among the petals they leave their harmonious laughter;
surely they are laughing unaware.

My cousins, when it rains, do not come. Sweedy
I bring away whatever buds the wind has blown down;

I make a bouquet with them, and place beneath the bouquet
a volume of poems by Musset or Samain.