Where have you gone, my little flock of sheep;
have you dispersed over the Vosges's pass?
Have you strayed to another river's glass?
Have you fallen down a gully so steep?
Where is the sacrament that with you keeps
you from death's harm, and with your greenest grass:
a pastureland of Liseron des Champs,
the pleasant place where White Asphodel steeps.
I wish you had waited for your shepherd,
I, standing in the ruins of the lost,
did not see you go, nor will you to leave.
The procession for my missing, a dirge,
I singing, naive of the harsh wind's frost
on the autumn backdrop of burnished leaves.
