Milly, or the Native Land (I), Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine

Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine Collection Harmonies poétiques et religieusesPeriod 19th century

Why must I speak this name of the fatherland?
In its brilliant exile my heart has trembled at it;
It echoes from afar in my softened soul,
Like familiar footsteps or the voice of a friend.

Mountains veiled by the autumn mist,
Valleys carpeted with the morning frost,
Willows whose crown the pruner stripped leaf by leaf,
Old towers that evening gilded in the distance,

Walls blackened by the years, hillsides, steep path,
Fountain where the shepherds, crouching in turn,
Waited drop by drop for a scant and limpid water,
And, their urn in hand, talked of the day,

Thatched cottage where the hearth’s flame sparkled,
Roof the pilgrim loved to see smoking,
Inanimate objects, have you then a soul
That clings to our soul and forces us to love?…

Alphonse de Lamartine

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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