It is the langorous ecstasy

It is the langorous ecstasy,

It is the fatigue after love,

It is all the rustling of the wood,

In the embrace of breezes;

It is near the gray branches:

A chorus of tiny voices.

Oh, what a frail and fresh murmur!

It babbles and whispers,

It resembles the soft noise

That waving grass exhales.

You might say it were, under the bending stream,

The muffled sound of rolling pebbles.

This soul, which laments

And this dormant moan,

It is ours, is it not?

Is it not mine? -- tell me -- and yours,

Whose humble anthem we breathe

On this mild evening, so very quietly?