The Butterflies, Poem by Gérard de Nerval

Poem by Gérard De Nerval Period 19th century

Of all the beautiful things
That we lack in winter,
Which do you like best? — I, the roses;
— I, the sight of a fair green meadow;
— I, the harvest turning blond,
The hair of the furrows;
— I, the nightingale that sings;
— And I, the beautiful butterflies!

The butterfly, a stemless flower,
That flutters,
That one gathers in a net;
In infinite nature,
Harmony
Between the plant and the bird!…

When superb summer returns,
I go off to the woods all alone:
I lie down in the tall grass,
Lost in that green shroud.
Over my upturned head,
There, each of them in turn,
Passes like a thought
Of poetry or of love!

Here is the “faun” butterfly,
Black and yellow;
Here is the azure “march”,
Stirring sparks
On its wings
Of rich and moiré velvet.

Here is the swift “vulcan”,
That flies like a bird:
Its black and splendid wing
Bears a great poppy-red ribbon.
Gods! the “sulphur”, in space,
Has shone like a lightning flash…
But the joyous “pearly” passes,
And I see no one but it!

Like a silk fan,
It unfolds
Its cloak sown with silver;
And its motley robe
Is gilded
With a greenish and changing gold.

Here is the “machaon-zebra”,
Striped with tawny and black;
The “mourning” in funereal dress,
And the “mirror” streaked with blue;
Here is the “argus”, dead leaf,
The “morio”, the “great blue”,
And the “peacock-of-day” that bears
On each wing an eye of fire!

But evening browns our plains;
The “moths”
Take their noisy flight,
And the “sphinxes” with somber colors,
In the shadows
Flutter as they whirl.

It is the “great peacock” with the pink eye
Drawn on a gray ground,
That flies only at nightfall,
Like the bats;
The “bombyx” of the privet,
Striped with yellow and wind,
And the “oak butterfly”
That does not die in winter!…

Here is the “sphinx” with the head
Of a skeleton,
Painted in white on a black ground,
Which the villager dreads,
On his road,
To see fluttering in the evening.

I hate also the “moths”,
Somber guests of the night,
That flutter in our plains
From seven o’clock to midnight;
But you, butterflies that I love,
Light butterflies of day,
Everything in you is an emblem
Of poetry and of love!

III

Alas, butterflies that I love,
Sweet emblem,
Woe to you for your beauty!…
A finger, on your body,
In passing,
Crushes, alas! the velvet!…

A very young girl
With a tender heart, a sweet smile,
Piercing your hearts with a needle,
Gazes at you, her eye surprised:
And your legs are cut off
By the white nail that bites them,
And your antennae clenched
In the pains of death!…

Gérard de Nerval

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-butterflies-gerard-de-nerval/