Transition, Poem by Charles Cros

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Sandalwood CasketPeriod 19th century

To Édouard Manet.

The wind, mild herald of spring’s assault,
Lifts a green mist of buds through the branches.
The rain and the sun, the calm and the gales,
The dark woods against the sky, the snow in white bands,
Alternate. Nature is like a girl of seventeen,
A nervous young woman, swaying on her hips,
Laughing, weeping, at her shifting whims.

Not yet spring, but no longer winter.
Your soul, O my charming one, has these mingled hours.
The dark branches are full of a green mist.
The wicked words and the desolate speeches,
On your lips, a half-open eglantine bud,
Cease at my kisses. Thus the April showers
Melt, and the grass is enameled in the open.

Your pout has turned to laughter at my kisses,
As the snow melts, pale latecomer,
In the triumphant rays of the sun. Soothed,
Your eyes, which cast me panther glances,
Are very gentle now. Dear, you fall silent
As the snowy, cold wind has just fallen silent.
Your cheek and the evening are warm and pink.

Charles Cros

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