A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Nice (Louise-Victorine Ackermann)
NICE.
At the foot of the hills see my garden in shelter,
My fig-trees, my home,
The valley ever green, and the sea-waves that welter,
Blue, silvered with foam.
Ah! When first I arrived in this valley enchanted,
The day I recall:
It was after a shipwreck, life barely was granted,
But I had lost all.
And now, since that season of despondence and sorrow,
Spring often has run,
Across meadows that love his wreaths radiant to borrow,
And laugh in the sun.
If no blooms are for me, in a present that's dreary
And future of ill,
At least, oh! my poor heart, of thy tears thou art weary,
And hast learned to be still.
'Mid scents of the orange, where all smiles,I may languish,
And sometimes may sigh,
But I can dream of times loved, and now see without anguish,
The days dawn and die.