With years you haven't changed, my fair:
You're charming, strict, as clear as day;
The only change is in your hair,
It's sleek and with a flash of gray.

Well, as for me, I'm sitting here,
Over my books, back at my place,
With an inscrutable idea
I'm looking at your quiet face.

The years, they haven't changed us, really,
We live the way we did before,
Fantastic years, we love them dearly
And will remember evermore...

Their spirit is in azure darkness,
Their ashes in the urn of dust.
It's more and more relaxed and lustrous
To breathe remembering the past.

May 30th, 1906.