Do you know the white tomb
Where floats, with plaintive sound,
The shadow of a yew tree?
On the yew, a pale dove,
Sad and alone, at sundown,
Sings its song;
An air sickly tender
At once charming and deadly,
Which gives you pain.
And which you'd like to hear forever;
An air like might be sighed from the heavens
By an amorous angel.

One would say that the awakened soul
Were sweeping beneath the ground in unison
With the song,
And, unhappy at being forgotten,
Complains with a cooing
Gently.
On the wings of the music
One feels slowly returning
A memory:
A shadow, an angelic form
Passes in a quaking ray
Veiled in white.

The night blossoms, half closed,
Exhale their mild, sweet perfume
About you,
And the phantom of vague shape
Whispers in extending you its arms
"You will return?"
Oh, never again shall I go
Near the tomb as night descends
In its black cloak
To listen to the pale dove
Sing, from the top of the yew tree,
Its plaintive song!