Happy is he who dies here
                Just
Like the birds of the fields!
His body among his friends 
                Is put
In the grass and into song.

He sleeps a good sleep,
                Vermilion 
Beneath the radiant sky.
All those he knew
                Have come 
To bid him their long farewells.

At his cross his family,
                Weeping,
Remain on their knees;
And his bones, beneath the flowers,
               With tears
Are gently moistened.

Each on the blackened wood 
                Can see
Whether he was young or not,
And can, with true
                Regret,
Call him by his name.

How much more unfortunate 
                Are those 
Who die at sea,
And beneath the deep flood
                Depart
Far from their beloved land!

Ah! poor souls, who for their only
                Shrouds
Have the green seaweed 
Where they roll unknown,
                Naked,
And with eyes wide open.

Happy is he who dies here
                Just
Like the birds of the fields!
His body among his friends 
                Is put
In the grass and into song.

He sleeps a good sleep,
                Vermilion 
Beneath the radiant sky.
All those he knew
                Have come 
To bid him their long farewells.

 ...