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Yes, I have left that tranquil port,
That port so long called home,
Where far from the troubles of the town,
In a sweet and easy leisure,
My days would have flowed without a sound.
I have left the shadowy valley,
The rustic roof of a friend;
Far from the groves of Bissy,
My muse, exiled against her will,
Departs, sad and desolate,
From the dwelling she had chosen.
We shall no longer in the meadows,
At the first ray of morning,
Wander, with uncertain step,
Our poetic reveries.
We shall no longer see the sun,
From the heights of Italy
Hurling down his vermilion chariot,
Like the father of life,
Restoring to drowsy nature
The first brightness of awakening.
We shall no longer enjoy your shade,
Old pines, the honor of these forests;
You shall no longer hear our secrets;
Beneath this damp and gloomy grotto
We shall no longer seek the cool,
And in the evening, at the rustic temple,
When the melancholy bell
Calls the whole hamlet,
We shall no longer, at prayer,
Bow down upon the simple stone
That covers a rustic tomb.
Farewell, valleys; farewell, groves;
Azure lake, wild rocks,
Thick woods, tranquil dwelling,
Dwelling of the happy and the wise,
I have left you without return.
Already my fleeting bark,
In the breath of the deceiving zephyrs,
Departs with regret from the shore
That protecting gods did not offer.
I face new storms;
No doubt to new shipwrecks
My frail skiff is doomed,
And yet in the flower of age,
On what reefs, on what shores
Have I not already run aground?
But why weary destiny
With a reckless complaint?
Scarcely halfway along the road,
Must one look back?
My lips have scarcely tasted
The bitter chalice of life,
I have pushed it far from me;
But the cruel decree is passed,
One must drink it to the dregs!
When my steps have crossed
Two thirds of our journey,
Under the weight of a whole life,
When my hair has turned white,
I shall return from old Bissy
To visit the solitary roof
Where heaven keeps a friend for me.
In some deep retreat,
Beneath the trees planted by him,
We shall watch flow like water
The end of our troubled days.
There, without fear and without hope,
On our stormy existence,
Brought back by memory,
Casting our glances behind,
We shall measure the course
That we had to travel.
Like an octogenarian pilot,
From the height of a solitary rock,
In the evening, calmly seated,
Lets his gaze wander afar
And still contemplates the expanse
Of the seas he once plowed.
Alphonse de Lamartine
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-farewell-alphonse-de-lamartine/