When your heavenly voice ushers in
The silence of beautiful nights,
You are not aware, winged bard,
Of my solitude, that I follow you.
You are not aware that my ear,
Listening intently to your sweet voice,
Has long been enraptured in the woods
By such wondrous harmony.
You are not aware
That I do not dare to breathe,
That my silent tread scarcely presses
The leaves it fears to crush!
Ah, your voice, touching or sublime,
Is too pure for this base earth!
This music which stirs you
Is an instinct which soars to God!
You take the strains you gather
From the murmuring of the waves,
From the rustlings of the leaves,
From the echoes’ dying cadences!
And from these sweet sounds, in which is mingled
The heavenly instinct that instructs you,
God fashioned your voice, o Philomel!
And you sing your hymn to the night!
Ah, these sweet nocturnal scenes,
These divine mysteries of evening,
And these flowers which incline their heads
Like a censer’s urn,
And this mysterious voice
That I with angels hearken to,
This sigh of divine night—
All this, melodious bird, is you!
Ah, mingle your voice with mine,
The same ear hears us;
But your aerial prayer
Climbs better to heaven which awaits you!
English: Roland Smithers � 1993