Temps Perdu

I never may turn the loop of a road

 Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying,

But my heart drags down with an ancient load-

 My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain-

 And sweeter the rain than a lover to me-

But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;

 My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There's never a rose spreads new at my door

 Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night

But I know I have known its beauty before,

 And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May

 Or a sycamore bared for a new November

Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day-

 What is it, what is it, I almost remember?