Lament

Do you know the white tomb

Where floats with plaintive sound,

The shadow of a yew?

On the yew a pale dove,

Sad and alone under the setting sun,

Sings its song:

An air sickly tender,

At the same time charming and ominous,

Which makes you feel agony

Yet which you wish to hear always;

An air like a sigh from the heavens

of a love-lorn angel.

One would say that an awakened soul

Is weeping under the earth in unison

With this song,

And from the misfortune of being forgotten,

Moans its sorrow in a cooing

Quite soft.

On the wings of the music

One feels the slow return

Of a memory.

A shadow, a form angelic,

Passes in a trembling ray of light,

In a white veil.

The beautiful flowers of the night, half-closed,

Send their perfume, faint and sweet,

Around you,

And the phantom of soft form

Murmurs, reaching to you her arms:

You will return!

Oh! never again near the tomb

Shall I go, when night lets fall

Its black mantle,

To hear the pale dove

Sing on the limb of the yew

Its plaintive song!