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Translated by John Oxenford
WHEN gloomy Winter takes his flight, | |
| When all begins to bloom anew, | |
| And when the sun with softest light | |
| Returns to deck our sky so blue; | |
| And when the swallows we can see, | 5 |
| And when fresh green o’erspreads the earth, | |
| I long for my own Normandy, | |
| For that ’s the land that gave me birth. | |
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| Among the glaciers I have been, | |
| Where from the vale the châlet peers, | 10 |
| The sky of Italy I ’ve seen, | |
| And Venice with her gondoliers. | |
| And, leaving all, I ’ve said: “To me | |
| There is a land of greater worth; | |
| Naught can excel my Normandy, | 15 |
| For that ’s the land that gave me birth. | |
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| The life of man a period knows | |
| When every youthful dream must cease, | |
| When the tired soul desires repose, | |
| And in remembrance finds its peace. | 20 |
| When dull and cold my muse shall be, | |
| And end her songs of love and mirth, | |
| O, then I ’ll seek my Normandy; | |
| For that ’s the land that gave me birth. | |
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