I shall not see the famous Phédre 
In the ancient theatre crowned with tiers, 
Its gallery rising smoky, high, 

Come celebrate, kinsmen, the twilight of freedom,
The darkening conscience, the great year obscured;
Into the boiling waters of nightfall

Through the wild herd of horses, the streets of night, I shall be rushing 
Seeking a blossoming alder branch in a black springed sleigh. 
For a bonnet of snow I shall be searching, for the endless mill-wheel noise.