European Elegies/Autumn (1)/Bird-song
18.BIRD-SONG
I was a tree in blossom, whence there sangThe sweet bird of my youth—too quickly flown.And even ere he left his leafy throneHis plaintive song betrayed an inner pang. His mourning was so soft and piteousThat in my bare unpeopled solitudeThe 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 raiseUntil the fatal Raven to me fliesTo croak the last black chant of winter days.
From the French of Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve.