The Bow, Poem by Charles Cros

She had beautiful hair, blond
Like an August harvest, so long
That it fell down to her heels.

She had a strange voice,
Musical, of a fairy or an angel,
Green eyes beneath their black fringe.

He feared no rival,
When he crossed mountain or vale,
Carrying her on his horse.

For, to all those of the region,
She had shown herself haughty,
Until the day he met her.

Love seized her heart so strongly,
That for a mocking smile,
A languishing illness came to her.

And in her last caresses:
“Make a bow with my tresses,
To charm your other mistresses.”

Then, in a long nervous kiss,
She died. Following her wishes,
He made the bow from her hair.

Like a blind man who mumbles,
On a Cremona violin
He played, begging for alms.

Everyone had intoxicating shivers
Listening to him. For in those sounds
The dead woman and her songs lived.

The king, charmed, made his fortune.
He knew how to please the dark queen
And carry her off in the moonlight.

But, each time he touched it
To please the queen, the bow
Sadly reproached him for it.
*

At the sound of the funeral language,
They died midway through the journey.
And the dead woman took back her pledge.

She took back her hair, blond
Like an August harvest, so long
That it fell down to her heels.

Charles Cros

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-the-bow-charles-cros/