Four Songs , opus 14

Softly the summer wind woos the rose;
Like a fickle lover
He kisses her petals, then off he goes
The fair fields over.
Yet since he has kissed her, forever the rose
Her heart, her heart uncloses;
And he breathes thereafter,
Wherever he goes,
The perfume, the perfume of roses. 

Dis-moi de quel secret ta harpe solitaire 
  T'entretient au déclin du jour?
Dis-moi si de ton cœur révélant le mystère, 
  Elle exhale un soupir d'amour ?

Si ta pensée intime en ton âme éveillée,
  Te dit de craindre ou d'espérer ;
Si tu sens, sous tes doigts, une corde mouillée,
  Et si tu chantes pour pleurer ?

Dis-moi si d'un accord, d'une note plus tendre,
  Ton cœur se trouble quelquefois ; 
Si la voix d'un absent soudain se fait entendre ;
  Si tu réponds à cette voix?

Mais non; non, ne dis rien ; chante, soupire, pleure
  Cache le secret de ton cœur;
Si tu le dis jamais... il faudra que je meure, --
  De désespoir ou de bonheur.

Tell me, what is the secret thy harp, sole companion,
In the twilight confides to thee?
Tell me if, from thy heart, its depths revealing,
Comes a sigh of love for me?

If thy inmost thought, thy awakened soul,
Doth fear or hope, courage keeping,
If the strings, neath thy hand, are moistened with tears,
And if thou singest while weeping?

Tell me if, at a chord, or a note soft and tender,
Thy gentle heart is grieving; 
If the voice of an absent one doth murmur fondly,
If thou respondest, believing?

But no, naught to me say, but sigh, and sing while weeping, 
keep thy secret from me.
If thou to me dost tell... loving thee must I die
Of despair or of rapture, sweet, for thee.

It was with doubt and trembling 
I whispered in her ear.
Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough,
That all the world may hear --
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat,
Upon the wayside tree,
How fair she is, how true she is,
How dear she is to me --
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, 
And through the summer long
The winds among the clover-tops
And brooks, for all their silvery stops,
Shall envy you the song --
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

The thrush sings high on the topmost bough;
Low, louder, low again, and now,
He has changed his tree, you know not how,
For you saw no flitting wing.

All the notes of the forest throng,
Flute, reed, and string, are in his song;
Never a fear knows he, nor wrong,
Nor a doubt of anything.

Small room for care in that soft breast;
All weather that comes is to him the best,
While he sees his mate close on her nest,
And the woods are full of spring.

He has lost his last year's love,
I know, He, too, but 'tis little he keeps of woe,
For a bird forgets in a year,
and so no wonder the thrush can sing.