The Flowers, Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine

O earth, vile heap of mud
Where thorny flowers germinate,
Let us give thanks to God, who shakes
Upon your breast His fresh colors!

Without these urns where drop by drop
Heaven restores strength to our steps,
All would be desert, and the road
To heaven would never be completed.

We would say: — What good is it to pursue
This path that leads to the grave?
Since we tire in vain from living,
Better to stop at the threshold. —

But to hide the distances from us,
On the path of our sorrows
You sow the ground with hopes,
As one edges a shroud with flowers!

And you, my heart, sad and tender heart,
Where such fresh voices sang;
You who are now but a block of ash
Covered with black and cold embers,

Ah! let these late-season glimmers
Bloom once more!
The summer evening that evaporates
Leaves a purple on the horizon.

Yes, die burning, O my soul,
On your pyre of illusions,
Like the star extinguishing its flame
Buries itself in its rays!

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-the-flowers-alphonse-de-lamartine/