Ode To the past
Long pursued by the hated spleen,
When I go in the fields, on the beautiful summer evenings,
In the fresh air refresh my temples,
I laugh to see, along the woods, the fiancees
Cheminer slowly, two by two, entwined
Like in old prints.
For I finally disdain the puerile kisses
And the faith of the sixteen years, brief flower of the avrils,
Ephemeral fluff of the peaches,
Which makes us content and we are too happy,
If the woman we love has her arms in love ,
the new soul and fresh lips.
She is faint for ever, the candor
Which makes that we fall in love with a sulky air
That is only through the veil,
And that we do not have enough ambitious words
To say to her friends she has pretty eyes
Blueberry and star color.
And that’s the end. My heart, left of old vows,
Will no longer know the infinite charm of confessions
And this happiness that floods you,
Because one evening in May, in the woods, in Meudon,
On your shoulder with a gesture of abandonment
She asked his blonde head.
And yet I knew all that; I have known
Even these sweet projects of ingenuous happiness
Which the soul so well accommodates:
Winter, the corner of the fire, the room with the deaf carpet,
And, in a cool cradle, two children sleeping
with their mother who embroider.
But this hope, alas! of a gilded future,
These apparitions, these dreams lasted
The time of a northern dawn,
And my spirit went to the fabulous countries
Where one thinks to pick the blue camellias
And to find the ideal love.
There, I suffered a lot, and I come back bruised.
In unworthy pleasures forever I have sullied the
holy whiteness of my soul.
I come back from the shore where I had emigrated,
And my forehead is very pale; and yet, despite
what I suffered by the woman,
In spite of this broken heart, without hope and without faith,
These debauches that are done in the end in spite of oneself
Like hideous tasks,
Without ceasing I return to my laughing past,
As well as the first cold ones always towards the East
Return the white ones storks.