Starry night, beneath your pinions, be-
neath your breeze and your perfumes,
Lyre, in sorrow, softly sighing,
I dream of a love long past.
Melancholy, so sadly tranquil, fills with gloom
my poor weary heart.
And I hear your dear soul, my darling,
Quivering in the dreamy wood.
In the shadows of the greenwood,
When, alone, I am sighing low,
You come back, O! poor soul awaken'd,
Pure and white as snow in your shroud.
[I watch here at this, your small fountain
your blue eyes like the sky;
This rose, it is my dear hope,
And these fair stars they are your eyes