| In the sacred field | |||
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On one side, sad, lurid, vetust,
of green trees, one sees so funest!... Oh what silence!... That august muteness!... In front of that view, like this so melancholic,
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Outside, the vast prairie, all flowers
little purple flowers that there are picked, only to adorn the exteriors of the poor graves — humid sepulchers,
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Complaints and weeping leave agitated souls
and they wander forever in the infinite. What liturgies for the sky go, free! What sad cult! What funereal rite!
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It sighs the wind, when shaking the fine
of high cypresses, sadly lanky. Sad sigh, from where is that you emanate? asks the our soul, in shivering-fits,
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When, in your peace, oh Sacred Field,
with the sad liturgy of the cypress, the view I feel bedewed in weeping and my soul of tedium is covered,
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