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I
The carnival is leaving, the roses are about to bloom;
On the hillsides the turf already runs.
Yet the shivering season of pleasure
Under its light bells still laughs and flutters,
While, lifting the veils of dawn,
Restless Spring appears on the horizon.
II
We must not speak ill of the poor month of March;
Though the plowman rightly fears it,
The universe is reborn in it; it is true that wind,
Rain and sun contend for empire there.
What can be done? In the time of flowers, the world is a child;
It is its first tear and its first smile.
III
It is in the month of March that the wild anemone
Tries to open its trembling corollas.
Women and flowers call for the zephyr;
And from the depths of their boudoirs the indolent beauties,
Softly swaying their nonchalant waists,
Begin to come under the old chestnut trees.
IV
It is then that the balls, more joyous and more rare,
Prolong their last fanfares longer;
At that noise which leaves us, we run with ardor;
The waltzer surrenders with more languor:
Eyes are bolder, lips less stingy,
Weariness intoxicates, and love comes to the heart.
V
If it is true that here below the farewell of what we love
Is such a sweet sorrow that one would wish to die of it,
It is in the month of March, it is at Mid-Lent,
That, coming out of a supper, a child of pleasure
Should write a poem on the waltz and love,
And gaily salute his gods about to depart.
VI
But who will know how to sing your steps full of harmony,
And your divine secrets, unknown to the vulgar,
Beautiful German Nymph with gilded buskins?
O Muse of the waltz! O flower of poetry!
Where are, in our time, the drinkers of ambrosia
Worthy to be dizzied in your adored arms?
VII
When, on Cithaeron, the ancient Bacchanal
Of the daughters of Cadmus loosened their hair,
Beauty was allowed to dance before the gods;
And if some profane one, at the sound of the music,
Rushed into the choruses, the shameless priestess
Struck the audacious one with her iron thyrsus.
VIII
It is not so in our coarse festivities;
Virgins today show themselves less severe,
And let themselves be touched without grace and without pride.
We open our vulgar quadrilles to whoever wishes;
We lose the respect owed to beauty,
And our noisy pleasures drive away voluptuousness.
IX
As long as the gothic minuet reigned among us,
One still remembered to observe the measure.
Our fathers kept it in the days of Thermidor,
When the Republic danced to the sound of cannons,
When Tallien, lifting her tunic,
Made the gold rings clink on her bare feet.
X
Other times, other customs; rhythm and cadence
Have followed the hazards and the common law.
While the universe, leagued against France,
Exhausted itself with fatigue to give her a king,
The waltz with a stroke of its wing dethroned the dance.
If anyone complained of it, certainly, it was not I.
XI
I would only wish, since she is our hostess,
That we knew better how to honor this young goddess.
I would wish that to her voice our steps could be regulated,
Not to see profaned such a sweet intoxication,
Bruise the delicate contours of so beautiful a breast,
And the first comer carry her off in his arms.
XII
It is our barbarism and our indifference
That we must accuse; our inconstant spirit
Takes a fancy and lives on change;
But even disorder has need of elegance;
And I would wish at least that a duchess, in France,
Knew how to waltz as well as a German ox-driver.
Alfred De Musset
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-at-mid-lent-alfred-de-musset/
