Translated from the French by Thade Jude Correa
It’s found again.
What? Eternity.
It’s the sea going
with the sun.
Sentinel soul,
Let’s murmur the confession
Of the night so void
And the day in flames.
From human suffrage
And communal elan,
You wrench yourself free
And therefore, fly.
Because from you alone,
Embers of satin,
The Work emanates
With no one to say: at last.
There, no hope,
Nul orietur.
Knowledge with patience,
The torture is sure.
It’s found again.
What? Eternity.
It’s the sea going
With the sun.
(originally published 1872)
O SEASONS, O CASTLES
O seasons, o castles
What soul is perfect?
O seasons, o castles,
I’ve made the magical study
Of Happiness, which no one evades.
Salute it then, each time
The Gallic cock sings.
Ah, I’ll have no more of desire,
It has taken charge of my life.
That Spell! It took soul and body,
And shattered all will.
O seasons, o castles,
The hour of its flight, alas,
Will be the hour of death.
O seasons, o castles.
(originally published 1886)
ROMANCE
I
One isn’t serious at seventeen.
One fine evening, to hell with pints and lemonade,
With flashy cafes in dazzling lights!
You walk under the green lindens of the promenade.
The lindens smell good on the fine evenings of June!
The air is sometimes so gentle that you close your eyes;
The wind is charged with sound—the village isn’t far—
And with the scent of the vine and the scent of beer.
II
– Suddenly you glimpse the tiniest cloth
Of somber azure, framed by a little branch,
Pierced by an evil star, which dissolves itself
In gentle tremors, tiny and very white…
Night of June! Seventeen! You let yourself go.
The sap is champagne and goes right to your head.
You stumble; you feel a kiss on the lips
That palpitates there, like a little beast.
III
Your crazy heart Crusoes across the romances
– Until, in the light of a pale streetlamp,
A girl with charming little airs passes,
In the shadow of her father’s frightening false collar…
And, as she finds you immensely naïve,
Trotting along the way in her little boots,
She turns, alert, with a quick movement
– Thus on your lips the cavatinas die.
IV
You’re in love. Rented out until August.
You’re in love. -Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends flee; you have bad taste.
—Then the beloved, one night, deigned to write you…!
That very night…, – you return to the dazzling cafes,
You order pints or lemonade…
– One isn’t serious at seventeen,
And when there are green lindens on the promenade.
(originally published 1891)
Photo on Unsplash by Eric Brehm.
