Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
Often on the mountain, in the shade of the old oak,
At sunset, I sit down sorrowfully;
I let my gaze wander at random over the plain,
Whose changing picture unfolds at my feet.
Here growls the river with its foaming waves;
It winds, and plunges into a dark distance;
There the motionless lake spreads its sleeping waters
Where the evening star rises in the azure.
On the summit of these mounts crowned with dark woods,
Twilight still casts a last ray;
And the vaporous chariot of the queen of shadows
Rises, and already whitens the edges of the horizon.
Meanwhile, springing from the Gothic spire,
A religious sound spreads through the air:
The traveler stops, and the rustic bell
Mingles with the last sounds of day its holy concerts.
But at these sweet pictures my indifferent soul
Feels before them neither charm nor transports;
I contemplate the earth like a wandering shadow;
The sun of the living no longer warms the dead.
From hill to hill in vain carrying my view,
From south to north, from dawn to dusk,
I traverse all the points of the immense expanse,
And I say: “Nowhere does happiness await me.”
What do these valleys, these palaces, these cottages matter to me,
Vain objects whose charm for me has flown away?
Rivers, rocks, forests, solitudes so dear,
One single being is missing from you, and all is depopulated!
Whether the sun’s course begins or ends,
With an indifferent eye I follow it in its course;
In a dark or pure sky, whether it sets or rises,
What matters the sun? I expect nothing from the days.
When I could follow it in its vast career,
My eyes would see everywhere the void and deserts:
I desire nothing of all that it enlightens;
I ask nothing of the immense universe.
But perhaps beyond the bounds of its sphere,
Places where the true sun enlightens other skies,
If I could leave my mortal remains to the earth,
What I have so much dreamed would appear before my eyes!
There, I would intoxicate myself at the source for which I thirst;
There, I would find again both hope and love,
And that ideal good that every soul desires,
And that has no name in the earthly dwelling!
Would that I could, borne on the chariot of Dawn,
Vague object of my vows, leap up to you!
On the land of exile why do I still remain?
There is nothing in common between the earth and me.
When the leaf of the woods falls in the meadow,
The evening wind rises and tears it from the valleys;
And I, I am like the withered leaf:
Carry me away like it, stormy north winds!
Alphonse de Lamartine
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-isolation-alphonse-de-lamartine/