A Field of Crimson Rose
 
Dieu, faites couler de nos lévres une nouvelle chanson
Long have I suffered, long have I plucked
The stems in vain, and watched the green
Stain ripe my rough, red skin.  Long have I stretched
To the cold winds, and let my voice
Extend across the plains.  Burning flame;
Hear the thunder; I fear the cold, cold rain. 
Une goutte de l’eau
Chancelait au fond de mon abîme,
Et tombait comme éclate la peau
Douce de mon chagrin.
What is this scent of rose, deuce and sweet
That wraps my fevered lips?  My heart
Grows in soft repose beneath the grass,
And the soil rises to the tips
Of my bleeding, blooming fingers: take this,
The harvest of my songs, and bring it
To the airy deep, to the place where shadows
Flicker in the mixing light, where rivers
Quiver and fall the crossing heights, and tumble both
To sticking, gripping pitch.  Feel black
Break with the glowing red, erupt in fire, and dread
The inspiration from above:
A field of crimson rose.