If I were not a captive,
I would like this country,
And this plaintive sea,
And these fields of corn,
And these countless stars,
If along the dark wall
Did not glimmer
The saber of the Spahis.

 ... 

Yet I like a riverbank
Where the cold breath
Of the winters never arrive
Through the open windows.
The summer, the rain is warm,
The green insect that wanders
Glistens, a living emerald,
Under the blades of green grass.

 ... 

In this fairy palace,
My heart, full of concerts,
Believes, in muffled voices
That come from the deserts,
It hears genies
Blending the harmonies
Of infinite songs
That they sing in the air!

I like the sweet burning perfumes
Of these lands,
On the gilded windows
The trembling foliage,
The water that the spring pours forth
Under the bending palm tree,
And the white stork
On the white minarets.

 ... 

But especially, when the breeze
Touches me while fluttering about,
In the night, I like to be sitting,
Sitting while dreaming,
An eye on the deep sea,
While, pale and blonde,
The moon opens in the waves
Her silver fan.