Nous N’Irons Plus Au Bois
Nous n’irons plus au bois We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire, To weep for old desire And things that are no more.
The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door— We’ll walk the woods no more.
Château Renard, August 1875.