Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore.-PETRUS BOREL

The keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.

What is this sudden quiet cradling me
To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall?
What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical
That fade toward the window waveringly
A little open on the garden small?

Oh, heavy, heavy my despair,
Because, because of One so fair.

My misery knows no allay,
Although my heart has come away.

Although my heart, although my soul,
Have fled the fatal One's control.

My misery knows no allay,
Although my heart has come away.

My heart, the too, too feeling one,
Says to my soul, “Can it be done,

“Can it be done, too feeling heart,
That we from her shall live apart?”

My soul says to my heart, “Know I
What this strange pitfall should imply,

“That we, though far from her, are near,
Yea, present, though in exile here?”