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 légèreA la terre où je dormirai.Alfred de Musset.

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 légèreA la terre où je dormirai.

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 beUpon the green earth where I lie...One night we were alone and by her sideI sat, she drooped her head and as a-dreamOver the spinet let her fair hand glide.So soft the murmur was it scarce could seemMore than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested thereShould hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous airOf that sweet summer night breathed forth to usFrom flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream.Far in the silent grove the chestnut-treesAnd ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow;We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze,Through the half-opened casement let the lowSweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still,The plain deserted. All alone we wereAnd very young... Lucie was blonde and paleAnd pensive. As I musing gazed on herNo sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deepOf purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue.I with her beauty drunken was; in allThe world I loved but her, and yet so trueSo pure she was I loved her as one lovesA sister, in all innocence. We twoSat silent and alone; my hand touched hers,I watched the dreams upon her face and knewIn my own soul how strong to heal distressAre 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 nowHer 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 herFrom Heaven. Sweet language of the heart,In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraidAnd hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.Who knows the mysteries that a child may hearAnd utter in thy sighs divine, like theeBorn of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tearIs seen, yet all the rest is mysteryUnknown 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 stillTo vibrate in our souls. All passionlessDrooping upon my heart, she leaned her head.The cry of Desdemona didst thou hearIn thee, dear girl? I know not—only this,That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adoredSweet 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 thouLaid in the grave; so didst thou fade in deathOh my chaste flower! And thy dying wasA 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 beforeThe 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 handWill 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 leavesIts grace is sweet and dear to me,And light its tender shade will be.Upon the green earth where I lie....

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 sideI sat, she drooped her head and as a-dreamOver the spinet let her fair hand glide.So soft the murmur was it scarce could seemMore than a zephyr whispering in the reeds,Soft moving lest the birds, warm-nested thereShould hear and wake. The soft, voluptuous airOf that sweet summer night breathed forth to usFrom flowery chalices beside the glimmering stream.Far in the silent grove the chestnut-treesAnd ancient oaks swayed their sad branches slow;We sat and, listening to the amorous breeze,Through the half-opened casement let the lowSweet breath of Spring float in. The winds were still,The plain deserted. All alone we wereAnd very young... Lucie was blonde and paleAnd pensive. As I musing gazed on herNo sweeter eyes than hers e’er pierced the deepOf purest heaven, or mirrored back its blue.I with her beauty drunken was; in allThe world I loved but her, and yet so trueSo pure she was I loved her as one lovesA sister, in all innocence. We twoSat silent and alone; my hand touched hers,I watched the dreams upon her face and knewIn my own soul how strong to heal distressAre 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 nowHer 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 herFrom Heaven. Sweet language of the heart,In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraidAnd hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.Who knows the mysteries that a child may hearAnd utter in thy sighs divine, like theeBorn of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tearIs seen, yet all the rest is mysteryUnknown 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 stillTo vibrate in our souls. All passionlessDrooping upon my heart, she leaned her head.The cry of Desdemona didst thou hearIn thee, dear girl? I know not—only this,That thou didst weep, and on thine all-adoredSweet 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 thouLaid in the grave; so didst thou fade in deathOh my chaste flower! And thy dying wasA 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,

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 beforeThe 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 handWill 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 leavesIts grace is sweet and dear to me,And light its tender shade will be.Upon the green earth where I lie....

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....

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