L’Adieu / Farewell

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French

L’Adieu / Farewell

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère L’automne est morte souviens–t’en Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre Odeur du temps brin de bruyère Et souviens–toi que je t’attends
L’Adieu / Farewell
I’ve plucked this sprig of heather You know that autumn died We’Il be no more together Season and sprig of heather You know for you I’ll bide

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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play the old songs love please

Kannst Du die alten Lieder noch spielen?

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Kannst Du die alten Lieder noch spielen?
Kannst Du die alten Lieder noch spielen? Spiele, Liebling. Sie wehn durch mein Weh wie die Schiffe mit silbernen Kielen, die nach heimlichen Inselzielen treiben im leisen Abendsee. Und sie landen am Blütengestade, und der Frühling ist dort so jung. Und da findet an einsamen Pfade vergessene Götter in wartender Gnade meine müde Erinnerung.
play the old songs love please
play the old songs love please through my grief they go like silver keels to secret isles in the sunset’s glow, landing at flowery quays in the youth of spring. and on lonely ways dimmed gods will grace my remembering.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Yrjö Kilpinen sings Kannst du die alten Lieder noch spielen? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TRzAx8usSU

For the Fallen

For the Fallen

Laurence Binyon

For the Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day–time; They sleep beyond England’s foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well–spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869–1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.
For the Fallen
mater agit grates et honores Anglia reddit, dum gemit occisos trans maris alta suos. hoc genus, hic genius patriae: male passa tyrannos mater, et his eadem causa suprema fuit. funere ab augusto cantatur in aetheris arces nenia; sollemni tympana voce sonant; audimus medio coelestia carmina luctu, et mira in lacrimis gloria luce nitet. ad pugnam egreditur iuvenum cum cantibus agmen; stat robur membris, lucet in ore fides; intrepidique ultro, veniant si milia contra, hostibus adverso comminus ore cadunt. non illos poterit ceu nos vexare senectus, non anni fessis imposuisse notam. illorum memores cernemus condere solem lumen, item prima luce rubere polum. quos nec ridentes cari comitantur amici, nec iamiam retinent mensa, cubile, domus: nec datur his operis nostri pars ulla diurni, sed procul a patriae litore, grata quies. at qua surgit amor nobis, quibus orta profundis spes similis caecae condita fontis aquae, noverit hos penitusque fovens in pectore condet patria, ceu nocti sidera nota, suos. hi, cum nos erimus pulvis, velut astra nitebunt, quae carpent caeli per loca rite vias; sidera uti splendent, ubi nos premit hora tenebris, perpetua haec durat luce corusca cohors.
An homage to Laurence Binyon and to all those who fell in the Great War and in subsequent wars.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Fantasio

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French

Fantasio

André Bellessort (1866-1942)

La mort t'ayant surpris en travesti de bal, Pauvre Fantasio, de folles jeunes filles Te firent un linceul de leurs blanches mantilles, Et tu fus enterré le soir du carnaval. Sous un léger brouillard du ciel occidental Le mardi gras folâtre éparpillait ses trilles, Et ton glas, voltigeant sur de lointains quadrilles, Détachait dans la nuit ses notes de cristal. Des coins du corbillard le feu des girandoles Éclairait tout un chœur d'étranges farandoles. Nul n'avait pris le temps de revêtir le deuil. Ta rieuse maîtresse avait gardé son masque Et tous faisaient jouer derrière ton cercueil Une marche funèbre à leurs tambours de basque.
Fantasio
Death caught you costumed for the fancy ball. Giddy young women (Poor Fantasio!) lent you their white mantillas for a pall: they buried you, that night of carnival. In the slight vapour of the western sky mad Mardi Gras went frittering its trills; Your death-knell pranced on faraway quadrilles, etched on the night its crystal threnody. The flames of candelabra round the bier lit dancers reeling in an eerie choir. No-one had paused to dress in mourning-gear. Your laughing mistress kept her mask, and all followed your corse and, played, Fantasio, on tambourines, a march funereal.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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On His Grave

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French

On His Grave

ALFRED DE MUSSET (1810-57)

Mes chers amis quand je mourrai Plantez un saule au cimetière J’aime son feuillage éploré La pâleur m’en est douce et chère Et son ombre sera légère À la terre où je dormirai.
On His Grave
When I at last to rest am laid, My friends, come plant a willow tree, So sweet, so pale, so dear to me. I love the way its branches weep, And it shall cast a gentle shade Upon the earth where I shall sleep.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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His Daughter’s Grave

Demain, dès l'aube

Victor Hugo (1802-85)

His daughter Léopoldine had died at age 19 in a boating accident, with her husband who tried to save her.
Demain, dès l'aube
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois–tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
His Daughter’s Grave
Tomorrow, soon as dawn has lit the land, I’ll start. I know you’re waiting there, you see. I’ll walk the woods and hills. I cannot stand Another day, having you far from me. My eyes will fasten on my thoughts. I’ll tread, Hearing no voice, seeing no outward sight, Nameless, alone, hands folded, lowered head, In sadness: and my day shall be as night. I shall not watch the falling gold of eve, The distant sails borne down towards Harfleur. I’ll come and lay my tribute on your grave: Green holly, gathered tight with ling in flower.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Lake

Le lac

Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)

Le lac
Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages, Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour, Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges Jeter l'ancre un seul jour ? Ô lac ! l'année à peine a fini sa carrière, Et près des flots chéris qu'elle devait revoir, Regarde ! je viens seul m'asseoir sur cette pierre Où tu la vis s'asseoir ! Tu mugissais ainsi sous ces roches profondes, Ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs déchirés, Ainsi le vent jetait l'écume de tes ondes Sur ses pieds adorés. Un soir, t'en souvient-il ? nous voguions en silence ; On n'entendait au loin, sur l'onde et sous les cieux, Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence Tes flots harmonieux. Tout à coup des accents inconnus à la terre Du rivage charmé frappèrent les échos ; Le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m'est chère Laissa tomber ces mots : " Ô temps ! suspends ton vol, et vous, heures propices ! Suspendez votre cours : Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices Des plus beaux de nos jours ! " Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent, Coulez, coulez pour eux ; Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les dévorent ; Oubliez les heureux. " Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore, Le temps m'échappe et fuit ; Je dis à cette nuit : Sois plus lente ; et l'aurore Va dissiper la nuit. " Aimons donc, aimons donc ! de l'heure fugitive, Hâtons-nous, jouissons ! L'homme n'a point de port, le temps n'a point de rive ; Il coule, et nous passons ! " Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d'ivresse, Où l'amour à longs flots nous verse le bonheur, S'envolent loin de nous de la même vitesse Que les jours de malheur ? Eh quoi ! n'en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace ? Quoi ! passés pour jamais ! quoi ! tout entiers perdus ! Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface, Ne nous les rendra plus ! Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes, Que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez ? Parlez : nous rendrez-vous ces extases sublimes Que vous nous ravissez ? Ô lac ! rochers muets ! grottes ! forêt obscure ! Vous, que le temps épargne ou qu'il peut rajeunir, Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, Au moins le souvenir ! Qu'il soit dans ton repos, qu'il soit dans tes orages, Beau lac, et dans l'aspect de tes riants coteaux, Et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages Qui pendent sur tes eaux. Qu'il soit dans le zéphyr qui frémit et qui passe, Dans les bruits de tes bords par tes bords répétés, Dans l'astre au front d'argent qui blanchit ta surface De ses molles clartés. Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire, Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé, Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit ou l'on respire, Tout dise : Ils ont aimé !
The Lake
Forever swept to unknown shores away, Propelled through endless night implacably, Shall we not once on time’s primeval sea Drop anchor for a day? O Lake! a year is over. On this stone, By these dear waves she should have viewed again, Before you she was seated. I remain, And sit to-day alone. Just so, beneath these plunging cliffs, you roared, And dashed yourself against their jagged walls; Your wind-blown foam fell then, where now it falls, Here on her feet adored. Recall how we set out, one silent eve: Nothing was heard between the waves and sky, But noise of oars that stroked in harmony The skein your waters weave. Then, suddenly, to tones no mortals hear The echoes on the spellbound shores awoke: The flood gave heed; across the water spoke The voice that I hold dear:- “Time, halt in your flight, and you hours, as a favour, Stop short and stand still in your ways! Since pleasures are fleeting, let’s eagerly savour Our best and most beautiful days! “For the wretches who suffer, run swiftly, you hours; They are many, and this they implore: Put an end to their days, and their care that devours; But the happy, I bid you ignore! “For myself, I may crave a few moments - but no, Time gives me the slip, takes flight: I may say to the night, ‘Go slow, go slow’, But the dawn will scatter the night. “So to Love! Let us love! Seize the wings of the morn, And delight in the scurrying day! For Man has no haven, and Time has no bourn: Time flies, and we vanish away!” Time, jealous Time! In bursts of giddy joy, Love inundates us with great happiness; Do these a faster wayward flight employ Than days of wretchedness? What? Can we not pin down at least a trace? What? Lost entirely? Gone for evermore? Time gave, and Time is minded to efface; And shall not Time restore? Dark gulfs, eternity, the past, the void! You swallow down our days; and what’s their fate? Will you give back what you have once destroyed, Our bliss, divinely great? O Lake! Mute rocks and caves! Dim greenery! Which Time shall spare, or render young again: Natural Beauty! Guard this night for me, Remember, and retain. Both in your tempests let this memory dwell, Fair lake, and in your calm; your slopes that smile, And the black firs and, high above your swell, The louring rocky pile; And in your tremulous and fleeting breeze, Your shore-sound that your further shore relays; And the star silver-browed, whose clarities Give whiteness to your glaze; And moaning wind, and softly sighing reed, Light perfumes, on your balmy zephyrs moved; And everything that’s heard, or seen, or breathed: All this shall say “They loved!”
Poetry Atlas: online [Video in French: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pqq-BjyRqiM]

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Epitaph

Épitaphe

Paul Scarron (1610-60)

Épitaphe
Celui qui ci maintenant dort Fit plus de pitié que d’envie, Et souffrit mille fois la mort Avant que de perdre la vie. Passant, ne fais ici de bruit, Prends garde qu’aucun ne l’éveille; Car voici la première nuit Que le pauvre Scarron sommeille.
Epitaph
A sleepyhead here is laid: He was much less envied than pitied, who a thousand times over was dead, before of his life he was quitted. So don't make a sound as you pass: don't waken him, don't molest: tonight's the first time, alas, that Scarron has had a good rest.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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