by
Léo Latil (1890 - 1915)
La tourterelle
Language: French (Français)
Available translation(s): ENG
Ma colombe, ô ma tourterelle,
est-ce vous dont j'entends la voix plaintive
qui gémit dans les ramaux
de ces ormaux qui s'assombrissent?
Dans cette fin du jour l'air du soir
était caressé par vos ailes,
et maintenant, dans l'arbre balancé
votre voix chante grave et pure,
se mêlant au confus murmure des eaux.
Ah! quelles tempêtes et quels orages
vous ont emporté dans leur vaste univers
mon bel oiseau si fier, conduisant votre course
avec celle des grands nuages vagabonds.
Qu'il est pure le ciel à son zenith!
Se peut-il que les vents calmés vous aient abandonné
dans les rameaux de ces grands arbres?
Leur feuillage hautain est confus sur le firmament.
Que vous vous plaignez tristement!
Quelle flèche vous a blessé,
mon bel oiseau si doux?
C'est ici la vallée de mes larmes.
Voici ces tendres coteaux, ces fleurs jamais cueillies,
ces rives nébuleuses qui cheminent vers l'horizon.
Le soleil a laissé ses rayons dans le ciel,
dans un ciel pur où palpite
le vol d'autres colombes invisibles.
Vous chantez sur cette arbre au pied duquel je pleure.
Ma colombe, ô ma tourterelle,
demeurez avec moi, dans ma vallée.
Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Faith J. Cormier) , "The turtledove", copyright © 2002, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 29
Word count: 190
The turtledove
Language: English  after the French (Français)
My dove, my turtledove,
is it your plaintive voice
I hear moaning
in the gathering shadows of the elm trees' branches?
Day is dying,
and your wings caressed the evening air.
Now, swaying in the tree,
your pure, solemn singing
is mingled with the murmur of the waters.
What tempests and storms
have borne you in their vast universe,
my fine proud bird, hurrying you along
with the wandering clouds?
The highest heaven is so pure.
Have the winds died down and abandoned you
in the branches of these mighty trees?
Their haughty leaves mingle with the firmament.
Your song is so sad.
What arrow has wounded you,
sweet and beauteous bird?
This is the valley of my tears.
See these tender hillsides, these unpicked flowers,
these uncertain banks leading toward the horizon.
The sun has left its rays in the sky,
a pure sky palpitating
with the flight of other invisible doves.
You sing in this tree; I weep at its roots.
Oh my dove, my turtledove,
stay with me in my valley.
Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2002 by Faith J. Cormier, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Léo Latil (1890 - 1915)
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 29
Word count: 175