I bring nothing with me, across the sea without return,
But a rose picked [in] our long love.
I have left everything; my step leaves again on the shore
Its brief track imprinted in the untroubled sand
And the rising sea will have quickly wiped away
This uncertain trace which my past left there.
Let us go! let the rough wind blow in my taut sails
And pull me far away from the lost land
Over there. Let another [mourn] the horizon in flight,
The red tile still on the roof of their house,
Over there, diminished and already so far off!
Let them miss the plot, the field, and the fountain!
[As for] me, I close the door and I do not weep.
And if the gods lead me to death,
May the waters bury me in the tomb which the sea,
Treacherous and perilous, digs for the voyager!
Since I will die upright as you will have seen me,
On the prow, departing, happy and gay, 
As long as the rose of my living love 
Forever embalms the tempest and perfumes the wind.

I would like for your eyes the plain
And a forest, green and red,
Distant
And sweet,
On the horizon beneath a clear sky;
Or hills in beautiful lines,
Flexible and supple and misty
And which would seem to melt in the sweetness of the air
Or the hills
Or the forest…

I would like for you to hear
Strong, vast, deep, and tender,
The great, muted voice of the sea,
[And lamenting]1 near you
In the intervals [between] - 
For you to hear - 
Right next to you,
A dove in the silence,
And weak and gentle
Like love;
A bit in the shadow,
For you to hear
A spring welling up.

I would like flowers for your hands
And for your footstep
A little path of herbs and sand
Which climbs a little and [then] descends
And turns and seems
To run to the bottom of the silence,
A very small path of sand
Where would mark [lightly] your steps,
Our steps,
Together!

The casement is open; it is raining
Almost meticulously,
With a faint sound, little by little,
Upon the garden, fresh and still.

Leaf by leaf, the rain awakens
The dusty tree, turning it green;
The climbing vine seems to stretch out
On the wall in a languorous gesture.

The grass trembles, the warm gravel
Crackles; from far off, 
One could hear them as imperceptible footsteps 
On the sand and grass. 

The garden whispers and quivers,
Furtive and confidential;
Stitch by stitch, the deluge seems to
Weave the earth with the sky.

It is raining, and, with eyes closed, I listen to
The wet garden as it drains 
All its rain at once
Into the shadow I have made inside myself.

You are tall, a body all charming
Whose shadow is at your feet among the roses
From which your hands pluck the leaves in dreaming;
The sweet flower, petal by petal, behaves as
Butterflies light and slow,
The stem little by little is blown away from its rose
And the flute tunes itself to the echo in the wind.

You are beautiful, all a face that smiles,
From your clear eyes which make you sweet
To your mouth
Where the smile in its grace [aches]
Like hope
Which, lip to lip, joins and touches
The lips of sadness, who smiles at him in his mirror.
The flute falls silent with the wind in the depths of evening.

You are beautiful, all your life and your days
Which, one by one, come toward you
Leading love,
Naked in his robe of gold and wool,
With his flask and his crown;
With your roses he will mix his heavy ears of wheat,
And, step by step, [your] hand in [his],
You will go toward the dawn, and in the serene night
Where, with the wind, my vain flute is broken,
You will hear,
One by one, beneath the roses and the cypresses,
The fountains singing in the shade.