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O Father whom my father adores!
You whom we name but on our knees!
You, whose name, terrible and sweet,
Makes my mother bow her head!
They say this brilliant sun
Is but a plaything of your power;
That beneath your feet it sways
Like a lamp of vermeil gold.
They say it is you who bring to birth
The little birds in the fields,
And who give to little children
A soul as well, to know you!
They say it is you who produce
The flowers that adorn the garden,
And that, without you, ever miserly,
The orchard would have no fruit.
To the gifts your goodness measures out
The whole universe is invited;
No insect is forgotten
At this feast of nature.
The lamb grazes on the wild thyme,
The goat clings to the cytisus,
The fly at the rim of the bowl 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 bring to bloom,
At noon, at evening, at dawn,
What must we do? Speak your name!
O God! my mouth stammers
This name the angels dread.
Even a child is heard
In the choir that glorifies you!
They say you love to receive
The vows presented by childhood,
Because of that innocence
Which we possess without knowing it.
They say their humble praises
Rise better to your ear,
That angels people the heavens,
And that we resemble the angels!
Ah! since you hear from so far
The vows our mouths address,
I want to ask you endlessly
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,
The orphan a dwelling,
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,
May your word, with fear and docility,
Ripen in my heart!
And may my voice rise to you
Like that sweet smoke
That the perfumed urn sways
In the hands 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/