Whoever enters the home of a poet  / Does not know that the furniture has power over him  /  That each knot of wood holds  /  More birdcalls than all the woodland heart  /  And that it is enough that a lamp curves its womanly neck  /  Against a polished corner as evening falls  /  To suddenly let loose a thousand cities of bees  /  And the smell of fresh bread from the cherry trees in flower  /  Because such is the happiness of this solitude  /  That one tender brush of the hand brings back  /  To these great dark taciturn chairs and tables  /  The lightness of a tree in the morning.

René-Guy Cadou