Nest-burdened branches, hills to which the wood belongs,

  Will you continue to murmur to others?

  Will you keep singing to others your songs?

  ‘How well we understood you! Attentive to your voice,

  Our echoes would answer you time and time again!

  How gladly we lent (without disturbing your rites)

  An ear to those deep words you utter now and then!

  ‘Answer me, valley, answer me, o Solitude!

  O Nature sheltered in this desert that’s in bloom,

  When both of us are sleeping in that grave position

  The thoughtful dead take on in the confines of the tomb,

  ‘Will you be so unmoved by us, even then,

  Knowing that we’re dead with all we’ve loved? And will you

  Continue with your quiet festivities then

  And still go on smiling and go on singing too?

  ‘And when you sense our spirits wandering through you –

  Familiars recognized by forest, hill, and glen –

  Won’t you confide in us and tell us those secrets

  One shares with old friends when one sees them again?

  ‘Will you be able, without sadness or lamenting,

  To watch our spirits drifting where our footsteps used to fall,

  And see her pull me in a sad embrace toward water

  Sobbing softly so you hardly hear it at all?

  ‘And if, in the shade where nothing watches, there are lovers

  Sheltering their ecstasies beneath some flower-bed,

  Won’t you go up to them and whisper in their ears:

  “You who are living, give a thought to the dead!”?

  ‘God lends us meadows and fountains for a moment,

  The vast, trembling forests, the blue skies above,

  The deep and deaf rocks, and the lakes, and the plains

  To place in them our hearts, our dreams, and our love –

  And then he takes them back. He extinguishes our flame.

  He plunges into darkness the cave we blazed about,

  And tells the valley where our souls have been imprinted

  To forget our names and rub all traces of us out.

  ‘Go ahead then, houses, garden, shadows, forget us!

  Hide our footsteps, brambles! Overrun our thresholds too!

  Sing, birds! Flow onward, rivers! And grow, grass and leaves!

  Those whom you’ve forgotten won’t forget about you.

  ‘– For you are the shadow of love itself for us;

  You are the oasis we discover in life’s sand;

  And you, o valley, are the ultimate refuge

  Where we’ve cried, holding each other by the hand!

  ‘All of the passions drift away as we grow older,

  Carrying off their masks, their knives, and what they will,

  Like a caravan of travelling actors whose singing

  Disperses when the troupe passes over a hill.

  ‘But you, enchanting Love, nothing quenches your flame.

  You light us in our fog and warm us in our cold.

  You keep us with joy and especially with tears.

  When young, we curse you; we revere you when we’re old.

  ‘And on those days when we are weighed down by the years,

  When the man without a vision, goal, or urging to create

  Senses he is nothing but a tomb in ruins

  Into which his virtues and illusions have been laid,

  ‘When our reflecting soul descends into our self

  To count in our heart ice at last has forced to yield

  Each fallen sorrow and each dream that’s been snuffed out

  The way one counts the bodies on a battlefield,

  ‘Like a man who is searching, holding up a lamp,

  The soul arrives with slow steps and by some dark stair –

  Far from real objects and far from the mocking world –

  At the innermost abyss of ourselves – and it’s there,

  ‘Within that night where no ray sparkles, that the soul,

  In a nook where everything appears to cease to be,

  Senses something palpitating still beneath a veil:

  Sleeping in the shadows, you, sacred memory!’

  Oceano Nox

  Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.

  Oh! combien de marins, combiens de capitaines

  Qui sont partis joyeux pour des courses lointaines,

  Dans ce morne horizon se sont évanouis!

  Combien ont disparu, dure et triste fortune!

  Dans une mer sans fond, par une nuit sans lune,

  Sous l’aveugle océan à jamais enfouis!

  Combien de patrons morts avec leurs équipages!

  L’ouragan de leur vie a pris toutes les pages,

  Et d’un souffle il a tout dispersé sur les flots!

  Nul ne saura leur fin dans l’abîme plongée.

  Chaque vague en passant d’un butin s’est chargée;

  L’une a saisi l’esquif, l’autre les matelots!

  Nul ne sait votre sort, pauvres têtes perdues!

  Vous roulez à travers les sombres étendues,

  Heurtant de vos fronts morts des écueils inconnus.

  Oh! que de vieux parents, qui n’avaient plus qu’un rêve,

  Sont morts en attendant tous les jours sur la grève

  Ceux qui ne sont pas revenus!

  On s’entretient de vous parfois dans les veillées.

  Maint joyeux cercle, assis sur des ancres rouillées,

  Mêle encor quelque temps vos noms d’ombre courverts

  Aux rires, aux refrains, aux récits d’aventures,

  Aux baisers qu’on dérobe à vos belles futures,

  Tandis que vous dormez dans les goëmons verts!

  On demande: – Où sont-ils? sont-ils rois dans quelque île?

  Nous ont-ils délaissés pour un bord plus fertile? –

  Puis votre souvenir même est enseveli.

  Le corps se perd dans l’eau, le nom dans la mémoire.

  Le temps, qui sur toute ombre en verse une plus noire,

  Sur le sombre océan jette le sombre oubli.

  Bientôt des yeux de tous votre ombre est disparue.

  L’un n’a-t-il pas sa barque et l’autre sa charrue?

  Seules, durant ces nuits où l’orage est vainqueur,

  Vos veuves aux fronts blancs, lasses de vous attendre,

  Parlent encor de vous en remuant la cendre

  De leur foyer et de leur cœur!

  Et quand la tombe enfin a fermé leur paupière,

  Rien ne sait plus vos noms, pas même une humble pierre

  Dans l’étroit cimetière où l’écho nous répond,

  Pas même un saule vert qui s’effeuille à l’automne,

  Pas même la chanson naïve et monotone

  Que chant un mendiant à l’angle d’un vieux pont!

  Où sont-ils, les marins sombrés dans les nuits noires?

  O flots, que vous savez de lugubres histoires!

  Flots profonds, redoutés des mères à genoux!

  Vous vous les racontez en montant les marées,

  Et c’est ce qui vous fait ces voix désespérées

  Que vous avez le soir quand vous venez vers nous!

  Oceano Nox

  Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.

  How many sailors, and how many captains

  Who set out in joy for some faraway land

  Have gone beneath the skyline and disappeared from sight!

  How many have vanished – hard and sad destiny –

  In a soundless ocean, on a moonless night,

  And are buried forever inside the blind sea!

  How many dead captains along with their crews!

  Hurricanes have carried off the pages of their lives

  And strewn them with gusts of wind across the ocean!

  Buried in the deep, no one will ever know their end.

  Every wave that passes by possesses a treasure:

  One clutches at the ship, another at the men!

  No one knows how you met your end, poor lost souls.

  You are rolling across the sombre expanses,

  Knocking up against reefs and drifting with the foam.

  How many parents, with a dream and nothing more,

  Have died waiting all those days along the shore

  For those who never came home!

  You’re talked about now and then at evening gatherings.

  Sitting on rusted anchors, circles of old friends

  Sometimes blend your shadowy names with the air,

  With laughter and song and stories of adventures,

  With kisses taken from your once glowing futures

  While you are sleeping in the seaweed’s green hair!

  Someone asks, ‘Where are they? Are they kings of some island?

  Have they abandoned us for some happier shore?’

  Even reminders of you soon become enshrouded,

  Your body lost in water, your name in memory:

  Time, pouring ever blacker shadows on each shadow,

  Casts a dark forgetfulness over a dark sea.

  And soon your shadow passes from the eyes of the world.

  Doesn’t this man have his vessel, that his plough to tend?

  Alone, on those nights when stormclouds flash in fits and starts,

  Your widows, worn out from always waiting up for you,

  Speak your names staring at the ashes they sift through

  In their hearths and their hearts!

  And when at last the grave has closed their eyelids too,

  Nothing knows your names anymore, not one stone

  Inside the narrow graveyard where echoes answer us –

  Not even the autumn willow, green and flowering,

  Not even the song, naive and monotonous,

  A beggar in the corner of a bridge will sometimes sing!

  Where are they, the sailors sunken in the black night?

  O waves, what melancholy histories you hide!

  Waves kneeling mothers dread, deep and dangerous:

  You exchange these stories while scaling the tide,

  And that is what makes those voices desperate –

  Those voices you release at dusk when you come toward us!

  Nuits de juin

  L’été, lorsque le jour a fui, de fleurs couverte

  La plaine verse au loin un parfum enivrant;

  Les yeux fermés, l’oreille aux rumeurs entr’ouverte,

  On ne dort qu’à demi d’un sommeil transparent.

  Les astres sont plus purs, l’ombre paraît meillure;

  Un vague demi-jour teint le dôme éternel;

  Et l’aube douce et pâle, en attendant son heure,

  Semble toute la nuit errer au bas du ciel.

  June Nights

  In summer when the day has gone, the flowering fields

  Pour out their scents, intoxicating and deep.

  With eyes closed, ears open to the sounds the earth yields,

  The world only half-sleeps a transparent sleep.

  The stars are purer then; the darkness seems to shake.

  A half day vaguely tints the heavens with its light.

  And the sweet and pale dawn, as if waiting to break,

  Wanders at the bottom of the sky the whole night.

  From Les Châtiments (1853)

  Souvenir de la nuit du 4

  L’enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.

  Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête;

  On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.

  Une vieille grand’mère était là qui pleurait.

  Nous la déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,

  Pâle, s’ouvrait; la mort noyait son œil farouche;

  Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.

  Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.

  On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de des plaies.

  Avez-vous vu saigner la mûre dans les haies?

  Sone crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.

  L’aïeule regarda déshabiller l’enfant,

  Disant: – Comme il est blanc! approchez donc la lampe.

  Dieu! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe! –

  Et quand se fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.

  La nuit était lugubre; on entendait des coups

  De fusil dans la rue où l’on en tuait d’autres.

  – Il faut ensevelir l’enfant, dirent les nôtres.

  Et l’on prit un drap blanc dans l’armoire en noyer.

  L’aïeule cependent l’approchait du foyer

  Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.

  Hélas! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides

  Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d’ici-bas!

  Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,

  Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.

  – Est-ce que ce n’est pas une chose qui navre!

  Cria-t-elle! monsieur, il n’avait pas huit ans!

  Ses maîtres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.

  Monsieur, quant il fallait que je fisse une lettre,

  C’est lui qui l’écrivait. Est-ce qu’on va se mettre

  À tuer les enfants maintenant? Ah! mon Dieu!

  On est donc des brigands! Je vous demande un peu,

  Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre!

  Dire qu’ils m’ont tué ce pauvre petit être!

  Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.

  Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.

  Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte;

  Cela n’aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte

  De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant! –

  Elle s’interrompit, les sanglots l’étouffant,

  Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l’aïeule:

  – Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule?

  Expliquer-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd’hui.

  Hélas! je n’avais plus de sa mère que lui.

  Pourquoi l’a-t-on tué? je veux qu’on me l’explique.

  L’enfant n’a pas crié vive la République. –

  Nous nous taisions, debout et graves, chapeau bas,

  Tremblant devant ce deuil qu’on ne console pas.

  Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.

  Monsieur Napoléon, c’est son nom authentique,

  Est pauvre et même prince; il aime les palais;

  Il lui convient d’avoir des chevaux, des valets,

  De l’argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,

  Ses chasses; par la même occasion, il sauve

  La famille, l’église et la société;

  Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de rose l’été,

  Où viendront l’adorer les préfets et les maires;

  C’est pour cela qu’il faut que les vieilles grand’mères,

  De leur pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,

  Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.

  From Punishments

  Memory of the Night of the Fourth

  The child had received two bullets in the head.

  The lodging was tidy, modest, peaceful, unassuming.

  A blessed branch hung above the portrait near the bed.

  The grandmother was there. All you heard were her cries.

  We undressed him in silence. The boy’s pallid lips

  Opened. Death drowned out and glazed his wild eyes.

  His drooping arms almost seemed to ask for support.

  We found a wooden top in his pocket and some cord.

  His skull was cracked open like a log that had split.

  His wound was so large you could put your thumb through it.

  Have you ever seen mulberries bleeding in a field?

  The grandmother watched us undressing him and said,

  ‘Look how pale he is! Come closer to the light!

  His poor curls are sticking to the top of his head.’

  And when we had finished, she took him on her knees.

  The night was ruthless. Rifles crackled in the streets

  Where the soldiers were shooting others in the head.

  ‘You will have to cover up the child,’ someone said.

  Someone else took a sheet out of the walnut armoire.

  The grandmother, however, brought him closer to the fire

  As if to warm his already stiffening limbs.

  Whatever death touches with his cold hands down here,

  Alas! can’t be warmed by our fires again.

  She leaned his head backwards and pulled off his socks,

  Then rubbed the corpse’s toes in her quivering hands.

  ‘Isn’t this a sight that we aren’t meant to withstand?’

  She shouted. ‘Sir, he wasn’t even eight years old!

  His teachers – he studied – said he did as he was told

  And stayed alert. Whenever I had to write a note

  Or a long letter, sir, it was always he who wrote.

  Are they going to kill children as well now? They must

  Be truly evil then. Does it not fill you with disgust?

  This morning he was playing near the window outside.

  To say that they have taken this little child’s life!

  He was passing by and they shot him in cold blood.

  He was a baby Jesus, so sweet and so good.

  I am old, sir: if I died, it might make some sense.

  It wouldn’t have cost Monsieur Bonaparte a cent

  To have killed me instead of killing my child!’

  She broke off, choking on her sobs for awhile.

  We cried with her. Then suddenly she changed her tone:

  ‘What am I going to do now that I am alone?

  Explain that to me, each and every one of you.

  There’s nothing of his mother now that I have lost him too.

  Tell me why they kill the defenceless and the weak.

  The child never shouted,Long live the Republic!’

  We were silent, hats in hand, and could offer no relief,

  Trembling in the face of inconsolable grief.

  Mother, you don’t understand: politics is a game.

  Monsieur Napoleon – that’s his authentic name –

  Is poor and yet a prince. He loves his palaces.

  It’s fitting he has horses and valets, and always is

  Providing for his bedroom, gambling, and his table.