Where is the Marguerite, O gué, o gué, where is the Marguerite? She is in her château, weary and tired at heart, She is in her hamlet, gay and childish at heart. She is in her grave, let us gather there the lily-of-the-valley, O gué, the Marguerite.
Where are our beloved ones? They are in the grave; they are happier in a fairer sojourn.
Of what use is beauty? Its use is to go in earth, to be eaten by worms, to be eaten by worms....
Do you not feel in you the opulence of being only for yourself beautiful, O Sea, and of being yourself?
Through me the way that runs among the Lost.