This is the hour when, tired of wandering, the black insect
returns from his outing and carefully tidies the disorder of his home.

First, he rakes his narrow sandy paths. He makes some sawdust, which he spreads on the
threshold of his retreat. He files the root of this tall grass, likely to annoy him. He rests.
Then he rewinds his tiny watch. Has he finished? Is it broken? He rests again for a moment.
He goes inside and shuts the door. For a long time, he turns the key in the delicate lock. And
he listens: not a sound outside. But he does not feel safe.

And as thought by a little chain with a creaking pulley he lets himself down into the bowels
of the earth. Nothing more is to be heard.

In the silent countryside, the poplars rise like fingers in the air pointing at the moon.

Texts by Jules Renard
Translations by Winifred Radford in The Interpretation of French Song by Pierre Bernac