Lucie.
Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai,
Plantez un saule au cimetière.
J’aime son feuillage éploré,
La pâleur m’en est douce et chère,
Et son ombre sera légère
A la terre où je dormirai.
Alfred de Musset.
DEAR friends belovèd, when I die,
Plant near my grave a willow-tree.
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves,
Its grace is sweet and dear to me,
And light its tender shade will be
Upon the green earth where I lie...
One night we were alone and by her side
I sat, she drooped her head and as a-dream
Over the spinet let her fair hand glide.
So soft the murmur was it scarce could seem
More than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,
Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested there
Should hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous air
Of that sweet summer night breathed forth to us
From flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream.
Far in the silent grove the chestnut-trees
And ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow;
We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze,
Through the half-opened casement let the low
Sweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still,
The plain deserted. All alone we were
And very young... Lucie was blonde and pale
And pensive. As I musing gazed on her
No sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deep
Of purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue.
I with her beauty drunken was; in all
The world I loved but her, and yet so true
So pure she was I loved her as one loves
A sister, in all innocence. We two
Sat silent and alone; my hand touched hers,
I watched the dreams upon her face and knew
In my own soul how strong to heal distress
Are those twin signs of peace and happiness,
Youth in the heart, youth mirrored on the brow.
The moon, uprising in the cloudless skies,
With silver fret-work flooded her, and now
Her smile became an angel’s smile; she sang,
Seeing her image shining in mine eyes.
Daughter of sorrow, Harmony! Harmony!
Sweet speech for love by Nature set apart!
To us thou camest from Italy—to her
From Heaven. Sweet language of the heart,
In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid
And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,
Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.
Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear
And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee
Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,
And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear
Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery
Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves,
Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness...
We were alone and sad; I looked on her.
The dying echo of her song seemed still
To vibrate in our souls. All passionless
Drooping upon my heart, she leaned her head.
The cry of Desdemona didst thou hear
In thee, dear girl? I know not—only this,
That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adored
Sweet mouth in sadness let me press mine own;
Thy sorrow was it that received my kiss...
So kissed I thee, all cold and colourless;
So, two short months being sped, wert thou
Laid in the grave; so didst thou fade in death
Oh my chaste flower! And thy dying was
A smile as sweet as thy fair life had been.
God took thee pure as when He gave thee breath.
Sweet mystery of the home of innocence,
Songs, dreams of love, laughter and childish words,
And thou, all-conquering charm, unknown and mild,
Yet strong to make even Faustus pause before
The sill of Marguerite at thy command,
Where are you all? Peace to thy soul, oh child!
Profoundest peace be to thy memories!
Farewell! On summer nights thy fair white hand
Will rest no more upon the ivory keys...
Dear friends belovèd, when I die,
Plant near my grave a willow-tree.
I love its pale, down-drooping leaves
Its grace is sweet and dear to me,
And light its tender shade will be.
Upon the green earth where I lie....