The Seashell at the Seashore

Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine Collection Poetic MeditationsPeriod 19th century

(To a young foreign girl.)

When your fair feet in idleness wander, O young maid,
On this wet sand, the golden fringe of the sea,
Stoop down, my love, toward the blond shell
That Venus, they say, has the bitter wave polish.

The Ocean’s jewel-case holds none its like;
The roses of your cheek scarce equal it;
And when to its spiral one brings the ear,
A thousand voices are heard that none can tell apart.

Now it is the tempest with its heavy waves,
That come in thunder to break upon your steps;
Now it is the forest with its vague shivers;
Now they are voices that whisper very low.

Oh! would you not say, at that confused murmur
That the seashell yields to lips of carmine,
A wondrous echo wherein immense nature
Summons all its sounds within the hollow of your hand?

Carry it away, my angel! And when your mind plays
With itself, idle, to charm away your weary hours,
Over this jewel of the seas lean laughing your cheek,
And, closing your fair eyes, gather up its sounds.

If, among these thousand accents with which its conch swarms,
There is one more sweet that comes to strike you,
And that scarce rises to the edges of the shell,
Like a confession of love that dares not escape;

If it has for your candor terrors and charms;
If it is reborn in dying almost eternally;
If it seems in the depths of a heart to roll with tears;
If it partakes of hope and of moaning…

Do not wear yourself out seeking this mystery!
This melodious breath, O my angel, is I!
What sound more eternal and more sweet on earth,
Than an echo of my heart that speaks to me of you?

Alphonse de Lamartine

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

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