Birds, if every year you leave our climes as soon as winter strips our woods bare, it is not only to find new greenery and avoid our wintry weather. But you are destined only to love when the flowers are in bloom and when that season has passed, you seek it elsewhere so that you can love all year round.
Mozart, Oiseaux, si tous les ans. K307, Libretto by Antoine Ferrand
- Posted in: Poetry - Seasons