The hummingbird, the green prince of the heights,
feeling the dew and seeing the sun's clear light
shining into his nest of woven grass,
shoots up in the air like a gleaming dart.

Hurriedly he flies to the nearby marsh
where the waves of bamboo rustle and bend,
and the red hibiscus with the heavenly scent
opens to show its moist and glistening heart.

Down to the flower he flies, alights from above,
and from the rosy cup drinks so much love
that he dies, not knowing if he could drink it dry.

Even so, my darling, on your pure lips
my soul and senses would have wished to die
on contact with that first full-fragrant kiss.

Stop! Listen to me, traveler. If your steps 
take you to Cypselus or the shores of the Hebron, 
look for old Hyllos and tell him to mourn long 
for the son he will never see again. 

My murdered flesh was a feast 
for the wolves. The rest lies in this funereal thicket. 
And the wandering shade, on the shores shadowed by Erebus, 
weeps in anger. No one has avenged my death. 

Go, then, and if ever, as night falls, you meet 
at the foot of a mound or tomb a woman 
whose pale brow is veiled in black,

draw near to her, fearing neither night nor magic. 
It is my mother, stranger, who embraces an empty urn 
on a vain tomb and fills it with her tears.

She passes quietly in a divine dream, 
by the coolest of your lakes, oh Norway. 
The subtle pink blood that gilds her fine collar
is as soft as the rays of dawn on the snow. 

At the vague murmur of ash and birch, 
in the sparkling charm of the hour, 
she goes, reflected in the pale azure of the water, 
skimmed by a silent flight of butterflies. 

When a furtive breeze riffles her blonde hair, 
ineffable ashes wash over her shoulder 
and her eyes, the colour of beautiful nights at the Pole, 
are so transparent that they tint her long lashes silver. 

Untarnished by shadow and desire, having hoped for nothing 
from this fleeting world where no winged creatures remain, 
never having smiled or wept, 
these calm eyes are open to the heavenly horizon. 

And the pensive guardian of the mystical orange tree
leans down from the balconies of the eternal Dawn
and watches this light ghost pass 
in the folds of an immortally white robe.