Chanson à Dulcinée
Alexandre Arnoux
Un an me dure la journée
Si je ne vois ma Dulcinée.
Mais, amour a peint son visage,
Afin d’adoucir ma langueur,
Dans la fontaine et le nuage,
Dans chaque aurore et chaque fleur.
Un an me dure la journée
Si je ne vois ma Dulcinée.
Toujours proche et toujours lointaine,
Étoile de mes longs chemins.
Le vent m’apporte son haleine
Quand il passe sur les jasmins.
Un an me dure la journée
Si je ne vois ma Dulcinée.
Song to Dulcinea
English Translation © Richard Stokes
A day seems like a year
If I do not see my Dulcinea.
But to sweeten my languishing,
Love has painted her face
In fountains and clouds,
In every dawn and every flower.
A day seems like a year
If I do not see my Dulcinea.
Ever near and ever far,
Star of my weary journeying,
Her breath is brought me on the breeze,
As it passes over jasmine flowers.
A day seems like a year
If I do not see my Dulcinea.
Translations by Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
Le spectre de la rose
Théophile Gautier
Soulève ta paupière close
Qu’effleure un songe virginal;
Je suis le spectre d’une rose
Que tu portais hier au bal.
Tu me pris encore emperlée
Des pleurs d’argent de l’arrosoir,
Et parmi le fête étoilée
Tu me promenas tout le soir.
Ô toi, qui de ma mort fus cause,
Sans que tu puisses le chasser,
Toutes les nuits mon spectre rose
À ton chevet viendra danser.
Mais ne crains rien, je ne réclame
Ni messe ni De profundis;
Ce léger parfum est mon âme,
Et j’arrive du paradis.
Mon destin fut digne d’envie:
Et pour avoir un sort si beau,
Plus d’un aurait donné sa vie,
Car sur ton sein j’ai mon tombeau,
Et sur l’albâtre où je repose
Un poëte avec un baiser
Écrivit: Ci-gît une rose
Que tous les rois vont jalouser.
The spectre of the rose
English Translation © Richard Stokes
Open your eyelids,
Brushed by a virginal dream;
I am the spectre of a rose
That yesterday you wore at the dance.
You plucked me still sprinkled
With silver tears of dew,
And amid the glittering feast
You wore me all evening long.
O you who brought about my death,
You shall be powerless to banish me:
The rosy spectre which every night
Will come to dance at your bedside.
But be not afraid – I demand
Neither Mass nor De Profundis;
This faint perfume is my soul,
And I come from Paradise.
My destiny was worthy of envy;
And for such a beautiful fate,
Many would have given their lives –
For my tomb is on your breast,
And on the alabaster where I lie,
A poet with a kiss
Has written: Here lies a rose
Which every king will envy.
Translations by Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
L'île inconnue
Théophile Gautier
Dites, le jeune belle,
Où voulez-vous aller?
La voile ouvre son aile,
La brise va souffler!
L’aviron est d’ivoire,
Le pavillon de moire,
Le gouvernail d’or fin;
J’ai pour lest une orange,
Pour voile une aile d’ange,
Pour mousse un séraphin.
Dites, le jeune belle,
Où voulez-vous aller?
La voile ouvre son aile,
La brise va souffler!
Est-ce dans la Baltique
Dans la mer Pacifique,
Dans l’île de Java?
Ou bien est-ce en Norvège,
Cueillir la fleur de neige
Ou la fleur d’Angsoka?
Dites, le jeune belle,
Où voulez-vous aller?
Menez-moi, dit la belle,
À la rive fidèle
Où l’on aime toujours.
– Cette rive, ma chère,
On ne la connaît guère
Au pays des amours.
Où voulez-vous aller?
La brise va souffler.
The unknowable isle
English Translation © Richard Stokes
Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?
The sail is billowing,
The breeze about to blow!
The oar is of ivory,
The pennant of watered silk,
The rudder of finest gold;
For ballast I’ve an orange,
For sail an angel’s wing,
For cabin-boy a seraph.
Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?
The sail is billowing,
The breeze about to blow!
Perhaps the Baltic,
Or the Pacific
Or the Isle of Java?
Or else to Norway,
To pluck the snow flower
Or the flower of Angsoka?
Tell me, pretty young maid,
Where is it you would go?
Take me, said the pretty maid,
To the shore of faithfulness
Where love endures forever.
– That shore, my sweet,
Is scare known
In the realm of love.
Where is it you would go?
The breeze is about to blow!
Translations by Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
La vie antérieure
Charles Baudelaire
J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.
Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.
C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes
Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs,
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs,
Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.
A previous life
English Translation © Richard Stokes
For long I lived beneath vast colonnades
Tinged with a thousand fires by ocean suns,
Whose giant pillars, straight and majestic,
Made them look, at evening, like basalt caves.
The sea-swells, mingling the mirrored skies,
Solemnly and mystically interwove
The mighty chords of their mellow music
With the colours of sunset reflected in my eyes.
It is there that I have lived in sensuous repose,
With blue sky about me and brightness and waves
And naked slaves all drenched in perfume.
Who fanned my brow with fronds of palm,
And whose only care was to fathom
The secret grief which made me languish.
L'invitation au voyage
Charles Baudelaire
Mon enfant, ma sœur,
Songe à la douceur
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté!
Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l’humeur est vagabonde;
C’est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.
-Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D’hyacinthe et d’or;
Le monde s’endort
Dans une chaude lumière.
Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté!
Invitation to journey
English Translation © Richard Stokes
My child, my sister,
Think how sweet
To journey there and live together!
To love as we please,
To love and die
In the land that is like you!
The watery suns
Of those hazy skies
Hold for my spirit
The same mysterious charms
As your treacherous eyes
Shining through their tears.
There - nothing but order and beauty dwell,
Abundance, calm, and sensuous delight.
See on those canals
Those vessels sleeping,
Vessels with a restless soul;
To satisfy
Your slightest desire
They come from the ends of the earth.
The setting suns
Clothe the fields,
Canals and all the town
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm light.
There - nothing but order and beauty dwell,
Abundance, calm, and sensuous delight.
From Dichterliebe
Robert Schumann
Ich will meine Seele tauchen
Heinrich Heine
Ich will meine Seele tauchen
In den Kelch der Lilie hinein;
Die Lilie soll klingend hauchen
Ein Lied von der Liebsten mein.
Das Lied soll schauern und beben,
Wie der Kuss von ihrem Mund,
Den sie mir einst gegeben
In wunderbar süsser Stund’.
Let me bathe my soul
English Translation © Richard Stokes
Let me bathe my soul
In the lily’s chalice;
The lily shall resound
With a song of my beloved.
The songs shall tremble and quiver
Like the kiss that her lips
Once gave me
In a wondrously sweet hour.
Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome
Heinrich Heine
Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome,
Da spiegelt sich in den Well’n
Mit seinem grossen Dome,
Das grosse, heilige Köln.
Im Dom da steht ein Bildnis,
Auf gold’nem Leder gemalt;
In meines Lebens Wildnis
Hat’s freundlich hineingestrahlt.
Es schweben Blumen und Eng’lein
Um unsre liebe Frau;
Die Augen, die Lippen, die Wäng’lein,
Die gleichen der Liebsten genau.
In the Rhine, in the holy river
English Translation © Richard Stokes
In the Rhine, in the holy river,
Mirrored in its waves,
With its great cathedral,
Stands great and holy Cologne.
In the cathedral hangs a picture,
Painted on gilded leather;
Into my life’s wilderness
It has cast its friendly rays.
Flowers and cherubs hover
Around Our beloved Lady;
Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks
Are the image of my love’s.
Ich grolle nicht
Heinrich Heine
Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht,
Ewig verlor’nes Lieb! ich grolle nicht.
Wie du auch strahlst in Diamantenpracht,
Es fällt kein Strahl in deines Herzens Nacht.
Das weiss ich längst. Ich sah dich ja im Traume,
Und sah die Nacht in deines Herzens Raume,
Und sah die Schlang’, die dir am Herzen frisst,
Ich sah, mein Lieb, wie sehr du elend bist.
Ich grolle nicht.
I bear no grudge
English Translation © Richard Stokes
I bear no grudge, though my heart is breaking,
O love forever lost! I bear no grudge.
However you gleam in diamond splendour,
No ray falls in the night of your heart.
I’ve known that long. For I saw you in my dreams,
And saw the night within your heart,
And saw the serpent gnawing at your heart;
I saw, my love, how pitiful you are.
I bear no grudge.
Mohnblumen
Felix Dahn
Mohnblumen sind die runden,
rotblutigen gesunden,
die sommersproßgebraunten,
die immer froh gelaunten,
kreuzbraven, kreuzfidelen,
tanznimmermüden Seelen;
die unter'm Lachen weinen
und nur geboren scheinen,
die Kornblumen zu necken,
und dennoch oft verstecken
die weichsten, besten Herzen,
im Schlinggewächs von Scherzen;
die man, weiß Gott, mit Küssen
ersticken würde müssen,
wär' man nicht immer bange,
umarmest du die Range,
sie springt ein voller Brander
aufflammend auseinander.
Poppies
English Translation © Richard Stokes 2011
Poppies are the round,
Red-blooded, healthy girls,
The brown and freckled ones,
The always good-humoured ones,
Honest and merry as the day is long,
Who never tire of dancing,
Who laugh and cry simultaneously
And only seem to be born
To tease the cornflowers,
And yet often conceal
The gentlest and kindest hearts
As they entwine and play their pranks,
Those whom, God knows,
You would have to stifle with kisses,
Were you not so timid,
For if you embrace the minx,
She will burst, like smouldering timber,
Into flames!
Der Feuerreiter
Eduard Mörike
Sehet ihr am Fensterlein
Dort die rote Mütze wieder?
Nicht geheuer muß es sein,
Denn er geht schon auf und nieder.
Und auf einmal welch Gewühle
Bei der Brücke, nach dem Feld!
Horch! das Feuerglöcklein gellt:
Hinterm Berg,
Hinterm Berg
Brennt es in der Mühle!
Schaut! da sprengt er wütend schier
Durch das Tor, der Feuerreiter,
Auf dem rippendürren Tier,
Als auf einer Feuerleiter!
Querfeldein! Durch Qualm und Schwüle,
Rennt er schon und ist am Ort!
Drüben schallt es fort und fort:
Hinterm Berg,
Hinterm Berg,
Brennt es in der Mühle!
Der so oft den roten Hahn
Meilenweit von fern gerochen,
Mit des heilgen Kreuzes Span
Freventlich die Glut besprochen –
Weh! dir grinst vom Dachgestühle
Dort der Feind im Höllenschein.
Gnade Gott der Seele dein!
Hinterm Berg,
Hinterm Berg,
Rast er in der Mühle!
Keine Stunde hielt es an,
Bis die Mühle borst in Trümmer;
Doch den kecken Reitersmann
Sah man von der Stunde nimmer.
Volk und Wagen im Gewühle
Kehren heim von all dem Graus;
Auch das Glöcklein klinget aus:
Hinterm Berg,
Hinterm Berg,
Brennts! –
Nach der Zeit ein Müller fand
Ein Gerippe samt der Mützen
Aufrecht an der Kellerwand
Auf der beinern Mähre sitzen:
Feuerreiter, wie so kühle
Reitest du in deinem Grab!
Husch! da fällts in Asche ab.
Ruhe wohl,
Ruhe wohl
Drunten in der Mühle!
Fire-rider
English Translation © Richard Stokes
See, at the window
There, his red cap again?
Something must be wrong,
For he’s pacing to and fro.
And all of a sudden, what a throng
At the bridge, heading for the fields!
Listen to the fire-bell shrilling:
Behind the hill,
Behind the hill
The mill’s on fire!
Look, there he gallops frenziedly
Through the gate, the fire-rider,
Straddling his skinny mount
Like a fireman’s ladder!
Across the fields! Through thick smoke and heat
He rides and has reached his goal!
The distant bell peals on and on:
Behind the hill,
Behind the hill
The mill’s on fire!
You who have often smelt a fire
From many miles away,
And blasphemously conjured the blaze
With a fragment of the True Cross –
Look out! there, grinning at you from the rafters,
Is the Devil amid the flames of hell.
God have mercy on your soul!
Behind the hill,
Behind the hill
He’s raging in the mill!
In less than an hour
The mill collapsed in rubble;
But from that hour the bold rider
Was never seen again.
Thronging crowds and carriages
Turn back home from all the horror;
And the bell stops ringing too:
Behind the hill,
Behind the hill
A fire! –
Some time after a miller found
A skeleton, complete with cap,
Upright against the cellar wall,
Mounted on the fleshless mare:
Fire-rider, how coldly
You ride in your grave!
Hush! Now it flakes into ash.
Rest in peace,
Rest in peace
Down there in the mill!
A Felicidade
Sadness has no end,
Happiness does!
Happiness is like a drop of dew
On the petal of a flower.
It shines calmly, after being stirred
And falls like a tear of love.
The happiness of the poor seems
To be the grand illusion of the Carnaval.
We work the whole year long,
For one dream moment,
To make the costumes of a king, pirate, or a gardener!
And everything is over by Wednesday.
Sadness has no end,
Happiness does!
Happiness is like a plum
That the wind carries through the air.
It flies lightly, but has a brief life.
It needs wind that never stops.
Sadness has no end.
Translation by Bernardo Medeiros
