Adapted from Théophile
Gautier’s "Au Cimitière: Claire de Lune"
and whose it is? — where in the yew’s shade
there floats a plaintive sound?
Upon the yew, always the same pale dove
lonely and sad at each sun’s setting
utters his night-long threnody:
there floats a plaintive sound?
Upon the yew, always the same pale dove
lonely and sad at each sun’s setting
utters his night-long threnody:
an aria tenderly morbid,
as charming as it is fatal,
a song that gives you pain
yet which you long to hear forever;
an air like the other-worldly sigh
of a love-sick angel.
as charming as it is fatal,
a song that gives you pain
yet which you long to hear forever;
an air like the other-worldly sigh
of a love-sick angel.
One imagines the dead soul wakes
to weep down there in unison
with the forlorn lament, and in the misery
of being forgotten, it too complains
as soft and sweet as dove-song.
to weep down there in unison
with the forlorn lament, and in the misery
of being forgotten, it too complains
as soft and sweet as dove-song.
On the wings of this melody
all kinds of recollections return.
Whose shade is that? What form
angelic hovers in a beam of light?
O veil of whiteness! Yet linger not,
all kinds of recollections return.
Whose shade is that? What form
angelic hovers in a beam of light?
O veil of whiteness! Yet linger not,
beware the night-bloom beauty,
closing and opening, rich
in hypnotic scent around you; beware,
in yew-shade cast in moonlight
upon that white tomb inescapable
the phantom’s outstretched arms,
closing and opening, rich
in hypnotic scent around you; beware,
in yew-shade cast in moonlight
upon that white tomb inescapable
the phantom’s outstretched arms,
the gesture vaguely beckoning,
and just as vaguely warning you away,
the almost inaudible murmuring:
Flee now! But will you not
come back again in moonlight?
and just as vaguely warning you away,
the almost inaudible murmuring:
Flee now! But will you not
come back again in moonlight?
O never again when night
drops its black mantle
drops its black mantle
upon the yew, the tomb,
and the obsessive-singing
dove who its its captive, never
shall I return to hear
that plaintive, mourning song!
and the obsessive-singing
dove who its its captive, never
shall I return to hear
that plaintive, mourning song!
Au Cimetière : Claire de lune
Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)Connaissez-vous la blanche tombe,
Où flotte avec un son plaintif
L'ombre d'un if?
Sur l'if une pâle colombe,
Triste et seule, au soleil couchant,
Chante son chant:
Un air maladivement tendre,
À la fois charmant et fatal,
Qui vous fait mal,
Et qu'on voudrait toujours entendre;
Un air, comme en soupire aux cieux
L'ange amoureux.
On dirait que l'âme éveillée
Pleure sous terre; à l'unisson
De la chanson,
Et, du malheur d'être oubliée
Se plaint dans un roucoulement
Bien doucement.
Sur les ailes de la musique
On sent lentement revenir
Un souvenir;
Une ombre de forme angélique,
Passe dans un rayon tremblant,
En voile blanc.
Les belles-de-nuit demi-closes,
Jettent leur parfum faible et doux
Autour de vous,
Et le fantôme aux molles poses
Murmure en vous tendant les bras:
Tu reviendras!
Oh! jamais plus, près de la tombe,
Je n'irai, quand descend le soir
Au manteau noir,
Écouter la pâle colombe
Chanter, sur la branche de l'if
Son chant plaintif!
