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Lydia, are you sincere? Forgive my alarms:
You grow more beautiful as you increase my fires;
And the same moment that brings you charms
Wrinkles my brow and whitens my hair.
In the morning of your years, cherished by the crowd,
All is for you joy, hope, love;
And I, an old traveler, on your flowery road
I walk alone and see the day end.
Like a soft ray when your moist gaze
Penetrates to the bottom of my revived heart,
I hardly dare to graze with a timid lip
The perfumed veil of your beautiful brow.
At once ashamed and proud of your whim,
Without believing in you, I let myself be intoxicated by it.
I adore your attractions, but I do myself justice:
I feel love and cannot inspire it.
By what enchantment could I have seduced you?
Could you not in my last sun
Have sought the fiery star that seemed to shine on me
When I sang the awakening of Sappho?
I do not have the talent that is praised on Parnassus.
Even if I had a temple on the summit of Helicon,
Talent does not restore what time erases;
Glory, alas! only rejuvenates a name.
The Warrior of Samos, the Shepherd of Aphelia,
My ungrateful sons, have they stolen your faith?
Your admiration wounds and humbles me:
Would you believe it? I am jealous of myself.
What do I care about living beyond my life?
What does a name published by death matter?
For my own sake, love me for a moment, my Lydia,
And may I be forever forgotten!
London, 1797.
Chateaubriand
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-to-lydia-francois-rene-de-chateaubriand/