European Elegies/Autumn (1)/Bird-song
18.BIRD-SONG
I was a tree in blossom, whence there sang
The sweet bird of my youth—too quickly flown.
And even ere he left his leafy throne
His plaintive song betrayed an inner pang.
His mourning was so soft and piteous
That in my bare unpeopled solitude
The listening bushes at his misery rued,
The ancient oak shed tears to hear him thus.
Now all is still and dead. That music lost,
I spread bare branches to November skies.
Dull groans betray a heart that breaks with frost,
Yet steadfast in the gloom my head I raise
Until the fatal Raven to me flies
To croak the last black chant of winter days.
The sweet bird of my youth—too quickly flown.
And even ere he left his leafy throne
His plaintive song betrayed an inner pang.
His mourning was so soft and piteous
That in my bare unpeopled solitude
The listening bushes at his misery rued,
The ancient oak shed tears to hear him thus.
Now all is still and dead. That music lost,
I spread bare branches to November skies.
Dull groans betray a heart that breaks with frost,
Yet steadfast in the gloom my head I raise
Until the fatal Raven to me flies
To croak the last black chant of winter days.
From the French of Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve.