To L., Poem by Victor Hugo

Poem by Victor Hugo Collection Les Rayons et les OmbresPeriod 19th century

XXXIX

To L.

All hope, my child, is but a reed that bends.
God holds our days within his hands, my dove;
He unwinds them on his fatal spindle,
Then the thread breaks and our joy falls with it;
For in every cradle
A grave takes root.

Once, you see, the future, a pure ray,
Appeared to my dazzled soul,
Sky with its star, wave with its halcyon,
Luminous flower blooming in the shade.
That vision
Has vanished!

If, near you, someone weeps while dreaming,
Let them weep without seeking the cause.
Weeping is sweet, weeping is often good
For man, alas! on whom fate settles.
Every tear, my child,
Washes something away.
June 2, 1839.

Victor Hugo

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