Summer nights

When the new season arrives,
When the cold is gone,
Together we will go, my lovely,
To gather lilies of the valley in the woods;
Strewing beneath our feet the pearls
We see trembling each morning,
We shall go to listen to the blackbirds
   Singing!

Spring has come, my lovely;
This is the month [most] blessed by lovers;
And the bird, preening its wings until they are like satin,
Recites [some]1 lines at the edge of its nest.
Oh! Come then onto [the]2 mossy bank
To speak of our beautiful loves,
And tell me in your voice so soft:
    Forever!

Far, so far away, we stray from our path,
Setting to flight the hiding rabbit
And the buck admiring in the mirror of the water
Its great lowered antlers;
Then homeward we shall go, [joyous]3 and at ease,
Entwining our fingers together like baskets;
And we shall return home carrying
    Wild strawberries!

Open your closed eyelid
Which is gently brushed by a virginal dream!
I am the ghost of the rose
That you wore last night at the ball.
You took me when I was still sprinkled with pearls
Of silvery tears from the watering-can,
And, among the sparkling festivities,
You carried me the entire night.

O you, who caused my death:
Without the power to chase it away,
You will be visited every night by my ghost,
Which will dance at your bedside.
But fear nothing; I demand
Neither Mass nor De Profundis;
This mild perfume is my soul,
And I've come from Paradise.

My destiny is worthy of envy;
And to have a fate so fine,
More than one would give his life
For on your breast I have my tomb,
And on the alabaster where I rest,
A poet with a kiss
Wrote: "Here lies a rose,
Of which all kings may be jealous."

My beautiful love is dead,
I shall weep always;
Into the tomb, she has taken
My soul and my love.
Without waiting for me,
She has returned to heaven.
The angel which took her there
Did not want to take me.
How bitter is my fate!
Ah! without love, to go to sea!

The white creature
Is lying in the coffin;
How all in Nature
Seems bereaved to me!
The forgotten dove
Weeps and dreams of the one who is absent;
My soul cries and feels
That it has been abandoned.
How bitter is my fate,
Ah! without love, to go to sea!

Above me the immense night
Spreads itself like a shroud;
I sing my romanza
That heaven alone hears.
Ah! how beautiful she was,
And how I loved her!
I will never love
Another woman as much as I loved her;
How bitter is my fate!
ah! without love, to go to sea!

Return, return, my beloved!
Like a flower far from the sun,
The flower of my life is shut,
Far from your rosy smile!

Between our hearts such distance!
Such space between our kisses!
O bitter destiny! O harsh absence! 
O great, unappeasable desires!

Between here and there what lands,
What cities and hamlets,
What valleys and montains,
To exhaust the feet of horses!

[ ... ]

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!

Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
The sail swells,
The breeze will blow.

The oar is made of ivory,
The flag is of silk,
The helm is of fine gold;
I have for ballast an orange,
For a sail, the wing of an angel,
For a deck boy, a seraph.

Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
The sail swells,
The breeze will blow.

Is it to the Baltic?
To the Pacific Ocean?
To the island of Java?
Or else to Norway,
To gather the flower of the snow,
Or the flower of Angsoka?

Say, young beauty,
Where do you wish to go?
The sail swells,
The breeze will blow.

-- Lead me, says the beauty,
To the faithful shore
Where one loves always!
-- This shore, my darling,
We hardly know at all
In the land of Love.