Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
O you who pass like a shadow
Through this sad valley of tears,
Travelers on this somber globe,
Men! my brothers in sorrow,
Listen: here, toward Solyma,
Comes a sound of the sublime harp
That charmed the echo of Tabor:
Zion trembles beneath its ashes,
And the old palm tree thinks it hears
The voice of the old man of Segor!
Foolish is the mortal who thinks!
All thought is an error.
Live, and die in silence;
For the word belongs to the Lord!
He knows why the worlds float;
He knows why the waters flow,
Why the heavens hang above us,
Why the day shines and fades,
Why man sighs and passes:
And you, mortals, what do you know?
Sit down beside the fountains,
While, stirring the branches,
The warm breezes of noon
Make the shadow waver on the waters:
To the sweet murmur of their streams
Press out your fruitful grapes
Where the happy liquor reddens;
And from hand to hand beneath your trellises
Pass these vermilion cups
Full of the heart’s intoxication.
As one chooses a rose
From the garlands of Sharon,
Choose a virgin newly bloomed
Among the lilies of your valleys!
Drink deep of her breath;
Brush aside her ebony tresses,
Taste the fruits of her beauty.
Live, love, this is wisdom:
Beyond pleasure and tenderness,
All is falsehood and vanity!
Like a lily bowed by the rain
That bends its weeping branches,
If the hand of the Lord bends you,
Lower your head, and weep.
A tear shed at his feet
Shines more than the pearl set
In his immortal tabernacle;
And the wounded heart that sighs
Gives forth a sound sweeter than the lyre
Beneath the columns of the altar!
The stars roll on in silence
Without knowing the paths of the heavens;
The Jordan toward the immense abyss
Pursues its mysterious course;
The north wind, with a swift wing,
Without knowing where instinct guides it,
Leaps forth and races over your furrows;
The leaves that winter heaps up,
Without knowing where the wind drives them,
Fly in pale whirlwinds!
And you, why with a sterile care
Poison your bounded days?
The present day is worth more than a thousand
Of the centuries that are not yet born.
Pass on, pass on, light shadows,
Go where your fathers have gone,
To sleep beside your ancestors.
From that bed where death slumbers,
They say that one day she awakens
Like the dawn in the heavens!
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-wisdom-alphonse-de-lamartine/