Beautiful Cynicism III

Je me souviens encor des nocturnes sans nombre
Que me jouait ma mère, et je songe, en pleurant,
À ces soirs d’autrefois – passés dans la pénombre,
Quand Liszt se disait triste et Beethoven mourant.

Ô vieux piano d’ébène, image de ma vie,
Comme toi du bonheur ma pauvre âme est ravie,
Il te manque une artiste, il me faut L’Idéal;

Et pourtant là tu dors, ma seule joie au monde,
Qui donc fera renaître, ô détresse profonde,
De ton clavier funèbre un concert triomphal?

Naught within her eyes he read.
That would tell her mind unto him;
Though their light, he after said,
Quivered swiftly through and through him;
Till at last his heart burst free
From the prayer with which ’twas laden,
And he said, “When wilt thou be,
Mine forevermore, fair maiden?”

“When,” said she, “the breeze of May
With white flakes our heads shall cover,
I will be thy brideling gay—
Thou shalt be my husband-lover.”
“How,” said he, in sorrow bowed,
“Can I hope such hopeful weather?
Breeze of May and Winter’s cloud
Do not often fly together.”

Quickly as the words he said
From the west a wind came sighing,
And on each uncovered head
Sent the apple-blossoms flying;
“Flakes of white! Thou’rt mine,” said he,
“Sooner than thy wish or knowing.”
“Nay, I heard the breeze,” quoth she,
“When in yonder forest blowing.”