Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
O Father whom my father adores!
You who are named only on bended knee!
You, whose name terrible and sweet
Makes my mother bow her head!
They say this brilliant sun
Is but a toy of your power;
That beneath your feet it sways
Like a lamp of vermeil.
They say it is you who bring to birth
The little birds in the fields,
And who give to little children
A soul, too, to know you!
They say it is you who produce
The flowers with which the garden is adorned,
And that, without you, ever miserly,
The orchard would have no fruit.
To the gifts your goodness measures
The whole universe is invited;
No insect is forgotten
At this feast of nature.
The lamb grazes on wild thyme,
The goat clings to the cytisus,
The fly at the rim of the vase sips
The white drops of my milk!
The lark has the bitter seed
That the gleaner lets fly away,
The sparrow follows the winnower,
And the child clings to its mother.
And, to obtain each gift
That each day you make blossom,
At noon, at evening, at dawn,
What is needed? to speak your name!
O God! my mouth stammers
This name dreaded by the angels.
Even a child is heard
In the choir that glorifies you!
They say he loves to receive
The vows presented by childhood,
Because of this innocence
That we have without knowing it.
They say their humble praises
Rise better to his ear,
That angels people the heavens,
And that we resemble the angels!
Ah! since he hears from so far
The vows our mouth addresses,
I want to ask him ceaselessly
For what others need.
My God, give water to the fountains,
Give feathers to the sparrows,
And wool to the little lambs,
And shade and dew to the plains.
Give the sick man health,
The beggar the bread he weeps for,
To the orphan a dwelling,
To the prisoner liberty.
Give a numerous family
To the father who fears the Lord,
Give me wisdom and happiness,
So that my mother may be happy!
May I be good, though small,
Like that child in the temple,
Whom each morning I contemplate,
Smiling at the foot of my bed.
Place justice in my soul,
Truth on my lips,
So that with fear and docility
Your word may ripen in my heart!
And may my voice rise to you
Like that sweet smoke
That the perfumed urn sways
In the hand of children like me!
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-hymn-of-the-child-at-his-awakening-alphonse-de-lamartine-2/