Και στα αγγλικά για τους μη γαλλομαθείς (merci, Κώστα): The Death of the Sun (μτφρ. John Payne) The wind of autumn, like the sea's far sound, doth fare. Of solemn farewells full and plaints of unknown woe, Down the dim avenues, slow swaying to and fro The trees red with the blood of the sun dying there. The leaves, in whirling swarms, go fluttering through the air; And one sees oscillate upon the vermeil flow. To sleep, with nighing night, inclining soft and slow. Great nests, with purple tinct, among the branches bare. Sink, glorious planet, source and flambeau of the day ! Thy glory from thy wounds in sheets of gold doth flow, As from some puissant breast a love supreme doth ray. Die ! Thou shalt live again. The hope is sure. But, oh ! Who shall the life and flame and voice and hope restore Unto the broken heart, that's dead for evermore?