Through a whisper I make out
The subtle outline of ancient voices
And in the musician glimmers,
Pale love, a future sunrise!
And delirious, my soul and my heart
Are now nothing more than some double eye
Where does tremble, through a blurred day,
The ariette, alas! of every lyre?
Oh, to die of this lonely death
How they leave - dear love scaring you -
Making young and older hours sway
Oh, to die of this swing!