TIRED of the flowers' voluptuous whispering,
Nonnoune and Louisy with mixed curls hold
Each other's hand, he pale bronze, she browned gold,
Upon the cliff in happiness bathed deep,
Hearkening the blue chant of the low lagoon.
In this half-foreseen day they have been shown
The force of a word of simple tenderness,
And how a friendly touch grows a caress,
And how much sweeter, once the secret known,
When cheek against belovèd cheek reposes,
And fervid mouth upon the neck's tea-roses.
Under the heavy palms, under the woven tresses
Of the clear filagos--the children with drenched eyes
In irony of pity feel surprise
To hear the turtles weeping in the wood's recesses.