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My dear friends, when I am dead,
Plant a willow in the graveyard.
I love its mournful foliage;
Its pallor is sweet and dear to me,
And its shade will lie lightly
On the earth where I shall sleep.
One evening, we were alone, I was seated near her;
She leaned her head, and on her harpsichord
Let, while dreaming, her white hand float.
It was only a murmur: one would have said the wingbeats
Of a distant zephyr gliding over reeds,
And fearing as it passed to awaken the birds.
The tepid pleasures of melancholy nights
Rose around us from the calyx of flowers.
The chestnut trees of the park and the ancient oaks
Swayed gently under their weeping branches.
We listened to the night; the half-open window
Let the perfumes of spring come to us;
The winds were mute, the plain was deserted;
We were alone, pensive, and we were fifteen years old.
I looked at Lucie. She was pale and fair.
Never have two gentler eyes from the purest heaven
Fathomed the depth and reflected the azure.
Her beauty intoxicated me; I loved only her in the world.
But I believed I loved her as one loves a sister,
So full of modesty was all that came from her!
We fell silent for a long time; my hand touched hers.
I watched her sad and charming brow dream,
And I felt in my soul, with each movement,
How much can upon us, to heal every sorrow,
These two twin signs of peace and happiness,
Youth of face and youth of heart.
The moon, rising in a cloudless sky,
Suddenly flooded her with a long silver net.
She saw her image shining in my eyes;
Her smile seemed that of an angel: she sang.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Daughter of sorrow, harmony! harmony!
Language that genius invented for love!
Who came to us from Italy, and who came to him from the heavens!
Sweet language of the heart, the only one where thought,
That timid virgin, offended by a shadow,
Passes while keeping her veil and without fearing eyes!
Who knows what a child can hear and can say
In your divine sighs, born of the air he breathes,
Sad as his heart and sweet as his voice?
One catches a glance, a tear that falls;
The rest is a mystery unknown to the crowd,
Like that of the waves, of the night, and of the woods!
– We were alone, pensive; I looked at Lucie.
The echo of her romance seemed to tremble within us.
She leaned her heavy head on me.
Did you feel Desdemona sigh in your heart,
Poor child? You were weeping; on your adored mouth
You sadly let my lips rest,
And it was your sorrow that received my kiss.
Thus I embraced you, cold and colorless,
Thus, two months later, you were laid in the tomb;
Thus, O my chaste flower! you faded away.
Your death was a smile as sweet as your life,
And you were brought back to God in your cradle.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sweet mystery of the roof that innocence inhabits,
Songs, dreams of love, laughter, children’s talk,
And you, unknown charm against which nothing defends itself,
Who made Faust hesitate on Marguerite’s threshold,
Candor of the first days, what has become of you?
Deep peace to your soul, child! to your memory!
Farewell! your white hand on the ivory keyboard,
During the summer nights, will flutter no more…
My dear friends, when I am dead,
Plant a willow in the graveyard.
I love its mournful foliage;
Its pallor is sweet and dear to me,
And its shade will lie lightly
On the earth where I shall sleep.
Alfred De Musset
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-lucie-alfred-de-musset/