CHANSON SANS PAROLES

In the deep violet air,

Not a leaf is stirred;

There is no sound heard,

But afar, the rare

Trilled voice of a bird.

Is the wood's dim heart,

And the fragrant pine,

Incense, and a shrine

Of her coming? Apart,

I wait for a sign.

What the sudden hush said,

She will hear, and forsake,

Swift, for my sake,

Her green, grassy bed:

She will hear and awake!

She will hearken and glide,

From her place of deep rest,

Dove-eyed, with the breast

Of a dove, to my side:

The pines bow their crest.

I wait for a sign:

The leaves to be waved,

The tall tree-tops laved

In a flood of sunshine,

This world to be saved!

In the deep violet air,

Not a leaf is stirred;

There is no sound heard,

But afar, the rare

Trilled voice of a bird.