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?