Le temps file, le temps n'attend personne. Le temps guérit toutes les blessures. Tous autant que nous sommes nous voulons plus de temps. Du temps pour se relever, du temps pour grandir, du temps pour lâcher prise. Du temps.
A cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet up to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the moon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where every part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been, and where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was looking along the desolate garden walk, when I beheld a solitary figure in it.
A bud has burst on the upper bough (The linnet sang in my heart today); I know where the pale green grasses show By a tiny runnel, off the way, And the earth is wet. (A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)
I nabbed the fly in a briar rose (The linnet to-day in my heart did sing); Last night, my head tucked under my wing, I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows Thro' ferns of June. (A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)
Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down (The linnet sang in my heart today); The last gold bit of upland's mown, And most of summer has blown away Thro' the garden gate. (A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)