To M. Froment Meurice, Poem by Victor Hugo

We are brothers: the flower
By two arts may be made.
The poet is a chiseler;
The chiseler is a poet.

Poets or chiselers,
Through us the spirit is revealed.
We make good men better,
You make beauty more beautiful.

On her arm or on her neck,
You make from your reveries,
Statuary of the jewel,
Palaces of precious stones!

Do not say: “My art is nothing…”
Leave the beaten path,
Magician workman,
And mingle thought with gold!

All thinkers, without seeking
Who ends or who begins,
Sculpt the same rock:
That rock is immense art.

Michelangelo, grand old man,
In large blocks that he throws us,
Makes it spring forth at random;
Benvenuto crumbles it for us.

And, before infinite art,
Whose law never changes,
The crumb of Cellini
Is worth the block of Michelangelo.

All is great; dark or vermilion,
Every fire that shines is a soul.
The star is worth the sun;
The spark is worth the flame.

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-to-m-froment-meurice-victor-hugo/