L'ombre des arbres dans la rivière embrumée
Meurt comme de la fumée,
Tandis qu'en l'air, parmi les ramures réelles,
Se plaignent les tourterelles.
Combien, ô voyageur, ce paysage blême
Te mira, blême toi-même...
Et que tristes pleuraient dans les hautes feuillées
Tes espérances noyées!
The shadow of the trees, in the mist-covered river,
dies like smoke,
whereas in the air, among the real branches,
the doves lament.
How much, o traveller, this pale landscape
reflected you, pale yourself...
And how sadly, in the high branches,
your drowned hopes wept!
© translated by Christopher Goldsack
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