The brooms glow in the desolate moors;
on the ochre hills, the heather sings:
But you cannot heal my sad heart or ease
The memory of my poor dead child.

Come: it is springtime in the valley;
Sweet as her voice, the water whispers in passing,
And clear as her laughter is the growing angelus;
Fresh as her mouth is the wet foam.

I have the fever: Come, close to the rosemary,
Close to this frozen well that gnaws fresh grass;
Come, mourn and die, girl with the serene eyes;

We are tired: I feel the pain of this broken heart,
This dead heart during the month of May,
And this spring that she will never see.