We’re all the same arrow and strike the same goal.

  So there you have a few of my crimes. As I said,

  I plead guilty to them, and I give you my head.

  You must be very old, and consequently I repeat

  A loud me a culpa for the tenth time at least.

  If Beauzée is God, then it’s true, I’m atheist.

  The language was in order, dusted off, and august,

  Gold lilies, Boileau, Tristan, ceilings of blue stone,

  And those forty armchairs that surrounded the throne.

  I disturbed everything in this room, and even, well,

  Broke some of the things in there; the literal

  Was tobacco chew then; I promoted it to captain.

  I made the personal pronoun a Jacobin,

  And the participles, slaves to the subject, were for me

  Hyenas, and the verbs the beasts of anarchy.

  You’ve the reum confitentem. Let loose your blows!

  I said to the nostril: ‘But you’re only a nose!’

  And I said to the long gold fruit: ‘But you’re a pear!’

  I said to Vaugelas: ‘You’re a bag of hot air!’

  I said to all the words: ‘Be democratic, give

  And work with others like an anthill. Trust and live

  And love!’ – I started things, then mixed others with those:

  I threw the noble line to the black dogs of prose.

  And what I did, others have done in their own way

  Better than I. Polyhymnia, Euterpe,

  And Calliope have lost their serious design.

  We threw off the balance of the even-weighted line.

  It’s all true. Curse us. The measured line that wore

  A band of twelve feathers on its forehead before

  And jumped between rackets every time it was hit

  By what they call prosody and good etiquette,

  Breaks rules now, deceives the caesura by a word,

  And escapes, shuttlecock changing into a bird,

  From the cage of mid-line, and hurtles through the dark

  And bright realms of azure, a heavenly skylark.

  These words are now soaring in the air’s clarity.

  The writers have set the entire language free.

  And thanks to these bandits and to these terrorists –

  The Truth, chasing out swarms of pedants that resist;

  Imagination, voice that resounds triumphantly

  And breaks the tiles of bourgeois minds; Poetry

  With its high, triple forehead, that can sigh and can cheer

  And sing, believe, and scoff; and which Plautus and Shakespeare

  Used to sow among plebes and mobs, which always is

  Pouring out its wisdom of Job, and Horace’s

  Reason by means of all the madness it creates,

  And which the vast frenzy of the sky intoxicates

  So that crazed, star-eyed, dazzled and astonished, it will climb

  To eternity itself on the staircase of time –

  The muse, reappearing, leads us back and takes us in,

  Begins to cry at human suffering again,

  Strikes us down and consoles, goes from nadir to zenith,

  And makes every forehead reflect and glisten with

  Her flight, whirlwinds, lyre, hurricanes of sparklings,

  And her millions of eyes on her millions of wings.

  Vere Novo

  Comme le matin rit sur les roses en pleurs!

  Oh! les charmants petits amoureux qu’ont les fleurs!

  Ce n’est dans les jasmins, ce n’est dans les pervenches

  Qu’un éblouissement de folles ailes blanches

  Qui vont, viennent, s’en vont, reviennent, se fermant,

  Se rouvrant, dans un vaste et doux frémissement.

  O printemps! quand on songe à toute les missives

  Qui des amants rêveurs vont aux belles pensives,

  À ces cœurs confiés au papier, à ce tas

  De lettres que le feutre écrit au taffetas,

  Aux messages d’amour, d’ivresse et de délire

  Qu’on reçoit en avril et qu’en mai l’on déchire,

  On croit voir s’envoler, au gré du vent joyeux,

  Dans les prés, dans les bois, sur les eaux, dans les cieux,

  Et rôder en tous lieux, cherchant partout une âme,

  Et courir à la fleur en sortant de la femme,

  Les petits morceaux blancs, chassés en tourbillons,

  De tous les billets doux, devenus papillons.

  Vere Novo

  How the morning laughs and the tearful rose twinkles!

  Look at all the little ones the flowers have made love!

  It isn’t the jasmines; nor is it the periwinkles

  That a dazzling swarm of white wings hovers above

  And goes, comes, flies away, returns, collapses there,

  Then opens up again, sending shivers through the air.

  Oh spring! when one thinks of all the notes that are sent

  From dreamy lovers to loved ones, of all the time spent

  Entrusting the heart to paper, of the ink and the pile

  Of silken pages traced in some elaborate style,

  Of the messages of love, intoxication, and dismay

  That one receives in April and one rips to shreds in May,

  Waking up to a day like this, one thinks one sees –

  Prowling, flitting about on the whim of a breeze,

  And searching everywhere for a soul as they whirl

  Through the meadows, the woods, the water, and the skies –

  The little white pieces, blown around in a swirl,

  Of all the love letters now become butterflies.

  La Fête Chez Thérèse

  La chose fuit exquise et fort bien ordonnée.

  C’était au mois d’avril, et dans une journée

  Si douce, qu’on eût dit qu’amour l’eût faite exprès.

  Thérèse la duchesse à qui je donnerais,

  Si j’étais roi, Paris, si j’étais Dieu, le monde,

  Quand elle ne serait que Thérèse la blonde;

  Cette belle Thérèse, aux yeux de diamant,

  Nous avait conviés dans son jardin charmant.

  On était peu nombreux. Le chois faisait la fête.

  Nous étions tous ensemble et chacun tête à tête.

  Des couples pas à pas erraient de tous côtés.

  C’étaient les fiers seigneurs et les rares beautés,

  Les Amyntas rêvant auprès des Léonores,

  Les marquises riant avec les monsignores;

  Et l’on voyait rôder dans les grands escaliers

  Un nain qui dérobait leur bourse aux cavaliers.

  À midi, le spectacle avec la mélodie.

  Pourquoi jouer Plautus la nuit? La comédie

  Est une belle fille et rit mieux au grand jour.

  Or, on avait bâti, comme un temple d’amour,

  Près d’un bassin dans l’ombre habité par un cygne,

  Un théâtre en treillage où grimpait une vigne.

  Un cintre à claire-voie en anse de panier,

  Cage verte où sifflait un bouvreuil prisonnier,

  Couvrait toute la scène, et, sur leurs gorges blanches,

  Les actrices sentaient errer l’ombre des branches.

  On entendait au loin de magiques accords;

  Et, tout en haut, sortant de la frise à mi-corps,

  Pour atttirer la foule aux lazzis qu’il répète,

  Le blanc Pulcinella sonnait de la trompette.

  Deux faunes soutenaient le manteau d’Arlequin;

  Trivelin leur riait au nez comme un fquin.

  Parmi les ornements sculptés dans le treillage,

  Colombine dormait dans un gros coquillage,

  Et, quand, elle montrait son sein et ses bras nus,

  On eût cru voir la conque, et l’on eût dit Vénus.

  Le seigneur Pantalon, dans une niche, à droite,

  Vendait des limons doux sur une table étroite,

  Et criait par instants: «Seigneurs, l’homme est divin.

  Dieu n’avait fait que l’eau, mais l’homme a fait le vin!»

  Scaramouche en un coin harcelait de sa batte

  Le tragique Alcantor, suivi du triste Arbate;

  Crispin, vêtu de noir, jouait de l’éventail;

  Perché, jambe pendante, au sommet du portail,

  Carlino se penchait, écoutant les aubades,

  Et son pied ébauchait de rêveuses gambades.

  Le soleil tenait lieu de lustre; la saison

  Avait brodé de fleurs un immense gazon,

  Vert tapis déroulé sous maint groupe folâtre.

  Rangés des deux côtés de l’agreste théâtre,

  Les vrais arbers du parc, les sorbiers, les lilas,

  Les ébéniers qu’avril charge de falbalas,

  De leur sève embaumée exhalant les délices,

  Semblaient se divertir à faire les coulisses,

  Et, pour nous voir, ouvrant leurs fleurs comme des yeux,

  Joignaient aux violons leur murmure joyeux;

  Si bien qu’à ce concert gracieux et classique,

  La nature mêlait un peu de sa musique.

  Tout nous charmait, les bois, le jour serein, l’air pur,

  Les femmes tout amour et let ciel tout azur.

  Pour la pièce, elle était fort bonne, quoique ancienne.

  C’était, nonchalammment assis sur l’avant-scène,

  Pierrot, qui haranguait dans un grave entretien,

  Un singe timbalier à cheval sur un chien.

  Rien de plus. C’était simple et beau. – Par intervalles,

  Le singe faisait rage et cognait ses timbales;

  Puis Pierrot répliquait. – Écoutait qui voulait.

  L’un faisait apporter des glaces au valet;

  L’autre, galant drapé d’une cape fantasque,

  Parlait bas à sa dame en lui nouant son masque;

  Trois marquis attablés chantaient une chanson.

  Thérèse était assise à l’ombre d’un buisson;

  Les roses pâlissaient à côté de sa joue,

  Et, la voyant si belle, un paon faisait la roue.

  Moi, j’écoutais, pensif, un profane couplet

  Que fredonnait dans l’ombre un abbé violet.

  La nuit vint; tout se tut; les flambeaux s’éteignirent;

  Dans les bois assombris les sources se plaignirent;

  Le rossignol, caché dans son nid ténébreux,

  Chanta comme un poëte et comme un amoureux.

  Chacun se dispersa sous les profonds feuillages;

  Les folles en riant entraînèrent les sages;

  L’amante s’en alla dans l’ombre avec l’amant;

  Et, troublés comme on l’est en songe, vaguement,

  Ils sentaient par degrés se mêler à leur âme,

  À leurs discours secrets, à leurs regards de flamme,

  À leur cœur, à leurs sens, à leur molle raison,

  Le clair de lune bleu qui baignait l’horizon.

  The Party at Thérèse’s

  The thing was exquisite and superbly arranged.

  It happened in April, and took place on a day

  So mild you’d say love purposely made it that way.

  Thérèse was the duchess about whom one says,

  ‘Were I king, I’d give Paris, if God, the whole world,

  If only she would always remain the blonde Thérèse.’

  This beautiful Thérèse with diamond eyes

  Had asked all of us to her garden surprise.

  There weren’t many of us. Selection made our set.

  We were all together as well as tête-à-tête.

  Couples were wandering in step everywhere.

  There were proud lords along with rare beauties there:

  Amintas were dreaming next to their Leonores,

  Marquises were sharing jokes with monsignors;

  And you could see a dwarf, on the stairs or under them,

  Stealing from the purses of the knights and gentlemen.

  At noon, musicians came and added melody.

  Why must one play Plautus at night? Comedy

  Is a beautiful girl who laughs better in the light.

  And they had built a theatre for their delight

  Like a temple of love, overgrown with vines and fronds,

  Near a shadowy pool inhabited by swans.

  An arch, like a basket handle with an opening,

  And a cage from which a captured bullfinch would sing

  Hung above the actresses who felt the effects

  Of the shadowy bars passing over their necks.

  In the distance you could hear magical harmonies,

  And, poking his head out of the high curtain-frieze,

  Pulcinello would blow his trumpet time after time

  To attract a larger crowd to his wild pantomime.

  Two fauns were holding up the curtains. Trivelin

  Scoffed and then laughed in their faces, like a villain.

  Columbine was sleeping in a large rippled shell

  Near lattice-work that was baroque and classical.

  Whenever she would bare her white arms or her breast,

  You thought you saw a conch there and Venus at rest.

  The lord Pantalon, in a corner on the right,

  Was selling sweetened limes along with other delights

  And shouting now and then: ‘My lords, man is divine.

  God created water, but man created wine!’

  On the left Scaramouche was letting his stick land

  On Alcantor, followed by the sad Aberand;

  Crispin, dressed in black, waved his fan in the shade;

  Carlino, legs dangling from the top of the stair,

  Was leaning forward, listening to each serenade

  As his feet sketched new, dreamy dance steps in the air.

  The sun itself was our chandelier; while the Spring

  Embroidered the lawn – a vast, flower-covered thing,

  And brightened the tapestry spread out under her.

  Lining the edges of the rustic theatre

  The true trees of the park lilacs and ebonies

  Burdened with April’s furbelows and ruff, the sorb-trees –

  Amused themselves by forming the backdrop and the wings.

  Exhaling their sap’s mild scents and murmurings

  And opening their flowers, like eyes, to see us,

  They blended their whispers with every violin

  So well that, for this concert – classical, continuous –

  Nature mixed a little of her own music in.

  Everything was charming: the woods, the day, the air.

  The women were love and the sky azure there.

  The play itself was good, though a bit out of date:

  Pierrot was sitting near the theatre gate

  Haranguing relentlessly with strong and stern words

  A kettle-drumming monkey on a dog like a horse.

  Nothing more. It was simple, beautiful. Now and then

  The monkey screeched and banged his little kettle-drum again.

  Then Pierrot. You listened only if you wished.

  At one point someone brought the valet ices in a dish.

  Another man dressed in a dazzling costume spoke

  In hushed tones to his lady as he tied her mask and cloak.

  The three dukes at table sang an old melody.

  Thérèse was sitting down in the shadow of a tree;

  The roses that were next to her cheeks seemed to pale,

  And, seeing her beauty, a peacock spread its tail.

  Pensive, I was listening to a violet abbé

  Humming a couplet at the close of the day.

  The night came. It was calm. All the torches went out.

  The streams exchanged laments with themselves or a cloud.

  The nightingale, hidden in his dark nest above,

  Sang softly, like a poet or someone in love.

  Everyone walked beneath the leaves’ tent, or the sky’s:

  The foolish ones laughed as they dragged along the wise.

  The lovers went away together in the shade.

  And troubled, as if in a dream, by something vague,

  They sensed, blending into their souls by degrees,

  In their hearts, in their minds, in their hushed colloquies,

  In the meaningful looks they exchanged in the night,

  The distances awash with the bluish moonlight.

  «Heureux l’homme …»

  Heureux l’homme, occupé de l’éternel destin,

  Qui, tel qu’un voyageur qui part de grand matin,

  Se réveille, l’esprit rempli de rêverie,

  Et dès l’aube du jour se met à lire et prie!

  À mesure qu’il lit, le jour vient lentement

  Et se fait dans son âme ainsi qu’au firmament.

  Il voit distinctement, à cette clarté blême,

  Des choses dans sa chambre et d’autres en lui-même;

  Tout dort dans la maison; il est seul, il le croit,

  Et cependant, fermant leur bouche de leur doigt,

  Derrière lui, tandis que l’extase l’enivre,

  Les anges souriants se penchent sur son livre.

  ‘Happy the man …’

  Happy the man, preoccupied by destiny,

  Who, like a traveller leaving at the break of day,

  Awakes with a mind overwhelmed with reverie,

  And, at the crack of dawn, begins to read and pray!

  As he reads along, the daylight slowly filters in

  And illuminates his soul like the firmament.

  He sees more distinctly, as rays cover his shelf,

  The things in his bedroom – and others in himself.

  The house is sleeping now; he’s alone, or thinks he is.

  But behind him, while he is busy drinking ecstasies,

  Hushing each other with a finger or a look,

  Two angels, smiling, lean down over his book.

  Halte en marchant

  Une brume couvrait l’horizon; maintenant

  Voici le clair midi qui surgit rayonnant;

  Le brouillard se dissout en perles surs les branches,

  Et brille, diamant, au collier des pervenches.

  Le vent souffle à travers les arbres, sur les toits

  Du hameau noir cachant ses chaumes dans les bois;

  Et l’on voit tressaillir, épars dans les ramées,