The Spirits of the Flowers, Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine

Do you see, from the gold of these urns,
These spirits of the flowers escaping,
All steeped in nocturnal perfumes,
All clothed in fresh colors?

They are not vain phantoms
Created by a deceptive art,
To give a body to the aromas
That our lawns deliver to the wind.

No: every atom of matter
Is inhabited by a spirit;
Everything feels, and all of nature
Is nothing but pain and pleasure!

Each ray of humid flame
That springs from your eyes so soft;
Each sigh that from my soul
Leaps and throbs toward you;

Each repressed word
That dies on my lips of fire,
Not daring even to the beloved flower
To deliver the confession with a cherished name;

These dreams that night brings forth
As if to avenge us for the day,
All take a body, a soul, a being,
Visible, but to love alone!

This floating angel of the prairies,
Pale and bowed like its lilies,
Is one of my reveries
Remaining with the flowers I gathered.

And on its upturned wings
He who takes pleasure in expiring,
Is but one of my thoughts
That your lips will breathe in.

Alphonse de Lamartine

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

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