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I
It hails, it rains. Snow and mist;
A bog at every step.
The torrent wants, cries out, foams,
And the rock does not want.
The sabbath to our ear
Throws its vague hurrahs.
A fagot on an old woman
Passes by waving its arms.
Hideous passersby, white gleams;
It seems, on these black paths,
That men have branches,
That trees have hands.
II
We hear a coach pass by,
The heavy coach of death.
It comes, it rolls, it approaches.
The water howls and the north wind bites.
The harsh coachman, on the plain
With black and shifting aspects,
Drives his carriage full
Of all sorts of people.
November blows, the earth
Trembles, the squall melts;
The arrows of the sagittarius
Whistle in the deep sky.
III
– Coachman, where do you come from? says the tree.
– Where are you going? says the fleeing water.
The coachman is made of marble
And the coach is made of night.
It carries away beauty, glory,
Joy, love, noisy pleasures;
The carriage is all black,
The horses are frightening.
The tree, shuddering, bows.
The water feels the reeds stand up.
The bush on the hill
Climbs to see it pass.
IV
The blade of grass on the rock,
The cloud in the sky,
Watches that coach walk,
And thinks it sees Babel rolling.
On its gloomy silhouette,
Beating its wing with loud cries,
Fly the storm, owl,
And the shadow, bat.
Icy wind, you shake us!
The chariot rolls, and the trembling eye,
Through its great wheels,
Sees a white twilight.
V
Night, sinister marvel,
Spreads its sacred dread;
The whole forest awakens
Like a startled sleeper.
After the birds, the souls!
Fly under the pallid skies.
The pond, a mirror, laughs at the women
Who come out of the water lilies.
The air sobs, and the wind rattles,
And, under the dark firmament,
The gloomy night and pale death
Look at each other fixedly.
Victor Hugo
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-while-walking-at-night-in-a-wood-victor-hugo/