Things of the Evening

Poem by Victor Hugo Themes ChildhoodPeriod 19th century

The fog is cold, the heather is gray;
The herds of oxen go to the watering places;
The moon, emerging from the black clouds,
Seems a brightness that comes by surprise.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

The traveler walks and the moor is brown;
A shadow is behind, a shadow is ahead;
Whiteness in the west, glimmer in the east;
Here twilight, and there moonlight.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

The witch, seated, stretches out her lip;
The spider hooks its web to the roof;
The goblin gleams in the will-o’-the-wisp
Like a golden pistil in a tulip.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

On the sea one sees fishing boats;
Shipwreck watches a shuddering mast;
The wind says: tomorrow! the water says: now!
The voices one hears are desperate.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

The coach that goes from Avranches to Fougères
Cracks its whip like a vivid flash of lightning;
This is the moment when there float in the air
All those confused noises that the shadow exaggerates.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

In the deep woods blazes shine;
An old cemetery is on a hilltop;
Where does God find all that blackness that he puts
Into broken hearts and fallen nights?

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

Pools of silver tremble on the sands;
The osprey is at the edge of the chalky slopes;
The shepherd, through the wind, follows with his eyes
The monstrous and vague flight of the devils.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

A gray plume comes out of the chimneys;
The woodcutter passes with his burden;
One hears, amid the noise of the streams,
Faint shivers of trailing branches.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

Hunger makes the great morose wolves dream;
The river runs, the cloud flees;
Behind the windowpane where the lamp glows,
The little children have rosy heads.

I no longer know when, I no longer know where,
Master Yvon was blowing into his bagpipe.

Victor Hugo

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-things-of-the-evening-victor-hugo/