Beside a humble stone, a tree

Floats in the cemetery's air,

Not planted in memoriam there,

But growing wild, uncultured, free.

A bird comes perching there to sing,

Winter and summer, proffering

Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet.

That tree, that bird are you and I:

You, memory; absence, me, that tide

And time record. Ah, by your side

To live again, undying! Aye,

To live again! But ma petite,

Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . .

Will your love keep my memory fresh?Beside a humble stone, a tree

Floats in the cemetery's air,

Not planted in memoriam there,

But growing wild, uncultured, free.

A bird comes perching there to sing,

Winter and summer, proffering

Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet.

That tree, that bird are you and I:

You, memory; absence, me, that tide

And time record. Ah, by your side

To live again, undying! Aye,

To live again! But ma petite,

Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . .

Will your love keep my memory fresh?