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Ma colombe, ô ma tourterelle, est-ce vous dont j'entends la voix plaintive qui gémit dans les ramaux de ces ormaux qui s'assombrissent? Dans cette fin du jour l'air du soir était caressé par vos ailes, et maintenant, dans l'arbre balancé votre voix chante grave et pure, se mêlant au confus murmure des eaux. Ah! quelles tempêtes et quels orages vous ont emporté dans leur vaste univers mon bel oiseau si fier, conduisant votre course avec celle des grands nuages vagabonds. Qu'il est pure le ciel à son zenith! Se peut-il que les vents calmés vous aient abandonné dans les rameaux de ces grands arbres? Leur feuillage hautain est confus sur le firmament. Que vous vous plaignez tristement! Quelle flèche vous a blessé, mon bel oiseau si doux? C'est ici la vallée de mes larmes. Voici ces tendres coteaux, ces fleurs jamais cueillies, ces rives nébuleuses qui cheminent vers l'horizon. Le soleil a laissé ses rayons dans le ciel, dans un ciel pur où palpite le vol d'autres colombes invisibles. Vous chantez sur cette arbre au pied duquel je pleure. Ma colombe, ô ma tourterelle, demeurez avec moi, dans ma vallée.
Text Authorship:
- by Léo Latil (1890 - 1915) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Darius Milhaud (1892 - 1974), "La tourterelle", op. 20 no. 4 (1914), published 1920 [ voice and piano ], from Quatre Poèmes de Léo Latil, no. 4, Éd. Durand [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Faith J. Cormier) , "The turtledove", copyright © 2002, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 29
Word count: 190
My dove, my turtledove, is it your plaintive voice I hear moaning in the gathering shadows of the elm trees' branches? Day is dying, and your wings caressed the evening air. Now, swaying in the tree, your pure, solemn singing is mingled with the murmur of the waters. What tempests and storms have borne you in their vast universe, my fine proud bird, hurrying you along with the wandering clouds? The highest heaven is so pure. Have the winds died down and abandoned you in the branches of these mighty trees? Their haughty leaves mingle with the firmament. Your song is so sad. What arrow has wounded you, sweet and beauteous bird? This is the valley of my tears. See these tender hillsides, these unpicked flowers, these uncertain banks leading toward the horizon. The sun has left its rays in the sky, a pure sky palpitating with the flight of other invisible doves. You sing in this tree; I weep at its roots. Oh my dove, my turtledove, stay with me in my valley.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2002 by Faith J. Cormier, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf.
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Léo Latil (1890 - 1915)
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 29
Word count: 175