They say, my dove

They say, my dove,

that you are still dead and dreaming

beneath a tombstone;

but you awaken, revived,

for the soul that adores you,

oh pensive beloved!

Through the sleepless nights,

in the murmuring breeze,

I caress your long veils,

your swaying hair

and your half-closed wings

which flutter among the roses.

Oh delights! I breathe

your divine blond tresses!

Your pure voice, a kind of lyre,

moves on the swell of the waters

and touches them gently, suavely,

like a lamenting swan!