The Faun

          (Fêtes Galants: Le Faune)

An ancient faun of terra-cotta

Centring the bowling-green

Laughs, without doubt presaging,

A sad end to this time serene,

Which has led me and has led you,

Melancholy pilgrims lean,

To this hour whose vanishing

Swirls to the sounding tambourine.

The Sea-Shells

          (Fêtes Galants: Les Coquillages)

Each shell, encrusted, we see,

In the cave where we sought love’s goal,

Has its own peculiarity.

One has the purple colour of souls,

Ours, thief of the blood our hearts possess

When I burn and you flame, like hot coals.

That one affects your languorousness,

Your pallor, your weary form

Angered by my eyes’ mocking caress:

This one mimics the charm

Of your ear, and this I see

Your rosy neck, so full and warm:

But one, among all of them, troubled me.

The Innocents

          (Fêtes Galants: Les Ingénus)

High heels fought with their long dresses,

So that, a question of slopes and breezes,

Ankles sometimes glimmered to please us,

Ah, intercepted! – Dear foolishnesses!

Sometimes a jealous insect’s sting

Troubled necks of beauties under the branches,

White napes revealed in sudden flashes

A feast for our young eyes’ wild gazing.

Evening fell, ambiguous autumn evening:

The beauties, dreamers who leaned on our arms,

Whispered soft words, so deceptive, such charms,

That our souls were left quivering and singing.

Pantomime

          (Fêtes Galants: Pantomime)

Pierrot, who’s no Clitandre (Molière knew)

Empties a bottle with no more ado,

And, practical as ever, starts a pâté.

Cassander, at the end of the avenue,

Sheds there an unnoticed tear or two

For his nephew, disinherited today.

That scoundrel Harlequin has seen

To the kidnapping of Columbine

And pirouettes four times.

Columbine dreams, surprised as we

To feel a heart within the breeze

And hear, in her heart, voices rhyme.

Serenade

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Sérénade)

As the voice of a dead man might sing

          From the depths of the grave,

My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing

          Towards you, the voice that I raise.

Open your soul and hear the sound

          Of my mandoline:

For you I wrote this song, for you, I found

          This cruel, tender thing.

I will sing your eyes of gold and onyx,

          Clear of every shadow,

Then the Lethe of your breast, the Styx

          Of your hair’s dark flow.

As the voice of a dead man might sing

          From the depths of the grave,

My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing

          Towards you, the voice that I raise.

Next I will praise, above all

          That blessed flesh

Whose opulent perfumes recall

          Insomnia’s distress.

To conclude, I will tell of the kiss

          Of your red lip,

And how sweet my martyrdom is,

– My angel! – My Whip!

Open your soul and hear the sound

          Of my mandoline:

For you I wrote this song, for you, I found

          This cruel, tender thing.

Woman And Cat

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices I, Femme et Chatte)

She was playing with her cat:

And it was lovely to see

The white hand and white paw

Fight, in shadows of eve.

She hid – little wicked one! –

In black silk mittens

Claws of murderous agate,

Fierce and bright as kittens’.

The other too was full of sweetness,

Sheathing her sharp talons’ caress,

Though the devil lacked nothing there…

And in the bedroom, where sonorous

Ethereal laughter tinkled in the air,

There shone four points of phosphorus.

Dusk

(Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VI, L’Heure du Berger)

The moon is red on the misted horizon;

In a fog that dances, the meadow

Sleeps in the smoke, frogs bellow

In green reeds through which frissons run;

The lilies close their shutters,

The poplars stretch far away,

Tall and serried, their spectres stray;

Among bushes the fireflies flicker;

The owls are awake, in soundless flight

They row through the air on heavy wings,

The zenith fills, sombrely glowing.

Pale Venus emerges, and it is Night.

Parisian Sketch

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Eaux-Fortes I)

The moon was shedding her plates of zinc

                    In obtuse angles.

The plumes of smoke like ‘fives’ distinct

Rose thick and black from high roof-tangles.

The sky was grey, there wept a breeze

                    Like a bassoon.

Far off, a tom-cat, stealthy, discreet,

Miaowed, oh, strangely out of tune.

I, walked, of divine Plato dreaming

                    And of Phidias,

Salamis, Marathon, under twinkling

Eyes, eyes of blue jets of gas.

Lassitude

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia V)

              ‘For the wars of love a field of feathers’

                                                                                Gongora

With sweetness, with sweetness, with sweetness!

Calm this feverish rapture a little, my charmer.

Even at its height, you see, sometimes, a lover

Needs the quiet forgetfulness of a sister.

Be languid: make your caresses sleep-bringers,

Like your cradling gazes and your sighs.

Ah, the jealous embrace, the obsessive spasm,

Aren’t worth a deep kiss, even one that lies!

But you say to me, child: in your dear heart of gold

Wild desire goes sounding her cry.

Let her trumpet away, she’s far too bold!

Put your brow to my brow, your hand on my hand,

Make me those promises you’ll break by and by,

Let’s weep till the dawn, my little firebrand!

After Three Years

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia III)

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.

Veleda was a German priestess and prophetess who became prominent in the Batavian Rebellion in 70-69 BC, Tacitus mentioned her. She was considered a living divinity, because in this time the Germanic tribes considered any prophetesses as real deities. Statues of her  became very popular as garden ornaments in 19 century.