In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

“The wolf howled under the leavesAnd spit out the prettiest feathersOf his meal …”

“On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,And walk over the short …”

“!كم أتحول إلى عانس بافتقاري إلى شجاعة محبة الموت”

“Ciel ! Amour ! Liberté ! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle!Tu te fondais à lui comme un…”