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At first I saw strange phantoms upon me
Trailing long robes;
I know not if they were women or angels!
Their cloaks flooded over me with their beautiful fringes
Of mother-of-pearl and ruby.
As one breaks armor with the edge of a blade,
As a bold sailor
Breaks the blue gulf that parts beneath his oar,
So their golden robes, in great furrows of flame,
Broke the brazen night!
They were flying! — My curtain, old specter on sentry duty,
Watched them pass.
In their velvet eyes their pupils blazed;
I heard the feathers of their wings whispering,
As they came to brush against me.
They were flying! — But the troop, suspended from the paneling,
Capricious spirits,
Leapt all at once, then, all at once lost,
Fled into the night, like a steep arrow
That flees into the heavens!
They were flying! — I saw their black hair,
Where ebony in streams
Wept, caress me with its long brushing;
While from a kiss I felt the burning
Down to the depths of my bones.
Almighty God! I have seen the timid sylphs
Who die in the sun!
I have seen the beautiful bare feet of the fugitive nymphs!
I have seen the ardent breasts of the reluctant dryads,
With their vermilion thighs!
Nothing, no, nothing was worth that kiss of ambrosia,
Fresher than the morning!
Purer than the gaze of an Andalusian eye!
Sweeter than the speech of an Asian woman,
With satin lips!
Oh! whoever you may be, lowered over my head,
Shadows with floating bodies!
Let, oh! let me hold you entwined,
Drink from your kisses mad loves,
Drop by drop and for a long time!
Oh! come! we shall put in the silken alcove
A silver lamp.
Come! the night is sad and the lamp is joyful!
Blonde or dark, come; indolent or laughing,
Naive or fickle heart!
Come! we shall scatter roses on my bed;
For perfumes are sweet!
And the sultana, in the evening, perfumes her mouth;
When she is about to leave her dress and her babouche
For her bed of bamboo!
Alas! of beautiful nights the sky is as stingy with us
As of beautiful days!
Do you hear the harp of Ferrara moaning,
And under divine fingers the guitar throbbing?
Come, O my loves!
But nothing remains now but the cold and naked shadow,
Where the partitions creak.
I hear songs howling, like a child being killed;
And the crescent moon cuts out, in the street,
The angles of the houses.
Alfred De Musset
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-vision-alfred-de-musset/