Pastiche (oh no!) of Alexandre de Gabriac1.
Those trees reaching into the December sky we cannot speak without tears and without fears of their delicate, irreducible branches, the fidelity of their flight, the perpetuity of their aviaries! And at that hour before dinner hands ungloved of pearl grey gloves are shook with an intimacy more secret than one more secret and heartfelt, we promise them that on the anniversary our hearts will be there which will bring forth the due and chosen lament, at the secret and besought hour, without prescribing and without diminishing the Sun King's couchees behind the chestnut trees that are weeping, or the great setting of the king sun on the hearts that are empty of leaves.
1. Comte Alexandre de Gabriac (b. 1862), society journalist at Le Figaro and La Gaulois.
Lettres à Reynaldo Hahn, p.166