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When the God who strikes me, moved by my tears,
Lifts a little his hand from my oppressed heart,
And, granting some respite to my long alarms,
Lets my eyes dry and my breast breathe free;
Suddenly, like the wave driven back from the shore
To the banks that broke it returns with a moan,
Or like the reed, vain plaything of the storm,
That bends and rebounds under the passerby’s hand,
My heart returns to God, more docile and more tender,
And losing the memory of his chastisements,
Like a submissive child dares let him hear
Only a loving murmur to complain and bless!
How gloomy and dark was the mourning of my soul!
How many nights without poppies, how many days without sun!
How many times I counted the steps of time in the shadow,
When the hours passed without bringing sleep!
But far from me those times! may oblivion devour them!
What is no more for man, has it ever been?
A few days are lost; but happiness still
Can bloom beneath my eyes like a summer flower!
All days are yours! what matters their number?
You say: time hastens, or retraces its steps;
Ah! are you not the one who made the shadow recede
On the dial filled by a king you saved?
If you willed it! thus the torrent of my life,
To its source today rising without effort,
Would nourish anew my withered youth,
And with its vermilion waves fertilize its banks;
These hairs whose snow, alas! barely silvers
A brow where sorrow has engraved the past,
Would still be shaded by their ebony tuft,
As pure as the wave where the swan has passed!
Love would revive the brightness of these eyes,
And this hearth of the heart, reflected in the eyes,
Would again cast those chaste sparks
That make beauty blush with a fearful desire!
God! let me gather this fruitful palm,
And in my enraptured breast carry it forever,
As the torrent carries in its wave
The roses of Sharon that perfume its course!
When shall I see her over the child who rests
Lean gently in the calm of nights?
When shall I see her sons with their rosy lips
Hang from her breast like bees on lilies!
In the shade of the fig tree, near the flowing water,
Far from the eye of envy and the steps of the wicked,
I will build for them a nest in the world,
Like the sea swallow on a reef!
There, without giving them drink from those bitter springs
Where human wisdom has mixed its poison,
From my mouth faithful to the lessons of my fathers,
As their only wisdom they will learn your name!
There I will leave them, as their only inheritance,
All that the bird of heaven leaves to its young,
The pure water of the torrent, a nest under the foliage,
The fruits fallen from the tree, and my place in the sun!
Then, my brow laden with faded garlands,
Like an old olive tree among its shoots,
I will see my sons’ brilliant years
Hide my withered trunk under their young branches!
Then I will sing the hymn of my old age,
And, a guest intoxicated with the wines of your goodness,
I will pass the cup to the hands of youth,
And I will fall asleep in my bliss!
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-consolation-alphonse-de-lamartine/