Translations

poems from Verlaine’s Romances sans paroles (1874)

Chevaux de bois / merry-go-round

Turn, turn, fine merry-go-round,
Turn a hundred times, turn a thousand times,
Turn often and turn evermore,
Turn, turn to the sound of the oboes.

The ruddy child and the pale mother,
The lad in black and the girl in pink,
One doing her thing and the other showing off,
Each has a Sunday’s pennyworth.

Turn, turn, horses of their hearts,
While around all your turning
The sly trickster winks his eye,
Turn to the sound of the triumphant cornet!

It’s astonishing how drunk it makes you
To ride thus in this stupid circus:
An empty stomach and an aching head,
Plenty of sickness and oodles of good times!

Turn, hobbyhorses, without needing
The help of any spurs
To drive your circular gallops:
Turn, turn, without hope of hay.

And hurry on, horses of their souls:
The supper bell is already here
Night falls and chases the party
Of merry drinkers, famished by their thirst.

Turn, turn! The velvet sky
Slowly clothes itself in golden stars.
The church bell tolls a sad knell—
Turn to the joyful sound of drums!

Paysage triste / Sad landscape

The shadow of the trees in the misty river
Dies away like smoke,
While overhead, among the real branches,
The turtledoves lament.

How often, oh traveler, did this pale landscape
Mirror your own paleness back to you,
And how sadly in the lofty foliage
Did your drowned hopes weep!

Spleen [Fauré]

Tears fall in my heart
As rain falls on the town;
What is this languor
That permeates my heart?

Oh, the soft sound of rain
On the ground and on the roofs!
For a heart that grows weary,
Oh, the song of the rain!

Tears fall without reason
In my disheartened heart.
What! Was there no betrayal?
My grief is without reason.

It is truly the worst pain,
To not know why,
Without love and without hate,
My heart suffers such pain.

Spleen [Poldowski]

The roses were all red
And the ivy was all black.

Dear, at your slightest move,
All my despairs revive.

The sky was too blue, too tender,
The sea too green, and the air too soft.

I always fear—what it is, to wait!—
One of your atrocious flights.

I am weary of the holly with glossy leaves,
And of the shining boxwood,

And of the boundless countryside
And of everything, alas, but you!

Rêve / Dream  

Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches,
And here too my heart which only beats for you.
Do not tear it with your two white hands
And to your eyes so beautiful, may this humble gift be sweet.

I come all covered still in the dew
That the morning chills on my brow.
Allow my fatigue, resting at your feet,
To dream of precious moments that will soothe it.

On your young breast let me rest my head
Still ringing from your recent kisses;
Let it calm itself from the sweet storm,
And let me sleep a little, since you are resting.

Le vent dans la plaine / the wind on the plane

It is languorous rapture,
It is amorous fatigue,
It is all the tremors of the woods
Amidst the breezes’ embrace,
It is, about the grey branches,
The choir of tiny voices.

O the delicate and fresh murmuring!
That warbles and whispers,
That resembles the soft cry
That the restless grass exhales …
You would say – beneath the swirling water,
The muted rolling of pebbles.

La bonne chanson

Une sainte en son auréole / a saint in her halo

A saint in her halo,
A Châtelaine in her tower,
All that human speech contains
Of grace and love;

The golden note by which one hears
The horn in the depths of the woods,
Married to the tender pride
Of noble ladies of long ago;

With this, the emblematic charm
Of a fresh, triumphant smile,
Revealed within the candor of a swan
And the blushes of a woman-child;

Pearly appearances, white and pink,
A sweet noble harmony:
I see, I hear all of these things
In her Carolingian name.

Puisque l’aube grandit / Since day is breaking

Since day is breaking, since dawn is here,
Since, having long eluded me, hope may
Fly back to me who calls and implores it,
Since all this happiness really wants to be mine,

I want, guided by you, beautiful eyes of gentle flames,
Led by you, in whose hand my hand will tremble,
Walk straight on, whether along trails of moss
Or whether rocks and stones be in the path;

And, to ease the slowness of the road,
I will sing some innocent airs, I tell myself
That she’ll hear me without displeasure or doubt;
And truly I want no other paradise.

La lune blanche / The white moon

The white moon
Shines in the woods;
From each branch
Springs a voice
Beneath the boughs...

O my beloved.

The pond reflects,
Like a deep mirror,
The silhouette
Of the black willow
Where the wind weeps...

Let us dream, it is the hour.

A vast and tender
Consolation
Seems to descend
From the sky
Made iridescent by the moon...

It is the exquisite hour.

J'allais par des chemins perfides / I was walking along treacherous paths

I was walking along treacherous paths,
Painfully uncertain.
Your dear hands were my guides.

So pale on the distant horizon
Shone a faint hope of dawn;
Your eyes were the morning.

No sound, other than his ringing footstep,
Encouraged the traveler.
Your voice said to me: 'Walk on still!'

My fearful heart, my somber heart,
Cried, alone, along the sad road;
Love, delightful conqueror,

United us in joy.

J’ais presque peur, en vérité / I’m almost afraid, in truth

I’m almost afraid, in truth,
How much I feel my life is entwined
With the radiant thought
That took my soul last summer,

How much your ever dear image
Lives in this heart that is all yours,
This heart, only jealous
To love you and please you;

And I tremble – forgive me
For speaking so frankly –
At the thought that a word or a smile
From you is now my law,

And that only a gesture,
A word or a wink, from you is enough
To set my soul in mourning
for its heavenly illusion.

But I would sooner not see you – 
However dark the future might be
And full of countless pains –
Could I not, through an immense hope,

Immersed in this supreme happiness,
Tell myself again and again,
Despite all dismal returns,
That I love thee, that I love you!

Avant que tu ne t'en ailles / Before you disappear

Before you disappear,
Pale morning star,
- A thousand quail
Are singing, singing in the thyme. -

Turn towards the poet
Whose eyes are full of love,
- The lark
Rises to the sky with the daylight. -

Turn your gaze that the dawn
drowns with its blueness;
- What joy
Among the fields of ripe wheat! -

Then make my thoughts shine
Over there, far away, oh, far away!
- The dew
Gleams gaily on the hay. -

Into the sweet dream, where stirs
My dear, sleeping still...
- Quickly, quickly,
For here comes the golden sun. -

Donc, ce sera par un clair jour d'été / And so it’ll be on a bright summer’s day

 And so, it’ll be on a bright summer’s day:
The great sun, my partner in joy,
Will make, among the satin and silk,
Your dear beauty more beautiful still;

The sky, all blue, like a tall canopy,
Shall ripple sumptuously in long folds
Above our two happy foreheads, paled
With happiness and anticipation;

And when evening comes, the air will be soft
And will play caressingly in your veils,
And the peaceful gazes of the stars
Shall smile benevolently upon the spouses.

L'hiver a cessé / Winter has ended

Winter has ended, the light is soft
And dances from the earth to the clear heaven.
The saddest heart must give way
To the great joy scattered through the air.

For a year I have had spring in my soul,
And the green return of sweet blossoming,
Like flame encircling a flame,
Sets upon my ideal something ideal.

The blue sky extends, exalts, and crowns
the changeless azure where my love laughs.
The season is fair and my share is good
And all my hopes have their turn at last.

Let summer come! And let
Autumn and winter come after! Each season
Will be dear to me, oh You whom

This fantasy and this reason adorn!