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,