A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/La Chanson des Adieux (André Theuriet)
LA CHANSON DES ADIEUX.
The lover said to Love, about to fly,
'Go not, dear Love, away;
O my sole wealth, mine idol, refuge high,
Thy gold wings furl, and stay.
'Within my heart is not thy place, the best?
Reposest thou not there
As the wild wood-bird in its mossy nest?
Why wilt thou go, and where?
'Rest! In the house that peace and silence crown,
Beside the waters still,
Were we not happy when the night came down
On hamlet and on hill?
'Hast thou forgotten all the eves we past,
In summer side by side?
See, in mine eyes the tears that gather fast!
Oh, rest, whate'er betide.
'Thou dost not hear me, and thy bright wing throbs,
Thou burnest to depart;
Little import to thee my tears and sobs,
The torture in my heart.'
Love to the lover said, as far he flew,—
'O child, no ills forebode!
Have I not given thee aspirations new,
And lighter made thy load?
'Have I not waked within thy slumbering breast
Thoughts heretofore unknown,
That like a troop of birds make music blest?
Art thou not manlier grown?
'Art thou not better? vex not then thy mind,
If, subject unto change,
More bitter tears to dry, worse wounds to bind,
From place to place I range.
'Adieu! Lone dreamers elsewhere I must cheer,
And lo, I leave with thee
Friends, upon earth the only friends sincere,
The joys of memory.
'Some day I shall return, knock at thy pane,
Perhaps a suitor stand;
Who knows if thou wilt welcome me again,
And give me then thy hand?'