Over the past few centuries, France has provided some of the greatest lyrical poetry. On this page I would like to provide you with a small taste of the poems of some of France's greatest poets. Before we begin, I would like to thankDori Manor who agreed to donate some of his wonderful translations to this project. Almost all of the translations of the poems you will read here are his unless otherwise noted.
Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585)
Sonata 24
When it is six o'clock, with evening, by the fire,
And by the light of the lamp you will sit, weaving and weaving,
Sing my songs, and you will be amazed to know:
“In my life, Ronsard praised me all the same.”
Even if your mother is tired, you
She was drowsy, suddenly awake, startled.
Hear the name Ronsard, and you will hasten with passion
To bind the name of the blessed immortality.
I will dwell in silence. I will be a barren shadow.
We will rest among the shadows of Hades and the precious –
And you will be old and cry for the same.
The heat of my love that you refused is barren.
Listen to me and live today and not tomorrow:
I pluck the rose of life.
Grave from now on.
Want to read about the woman mentioned in Ronsard's poem?
Her name was Ellen de Sorgeur and her story appears in the article about Chateau de Brissac.
Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695)
The fox and the crow
He sat on the branch of a bitter oak tree,
A sliver of cheese in his mouth –
Bittersweet
fox
The scent of the evening,
And he spoke to him with great tenderness:
“Peace, peace there, my lord crow!
Among all the birds, there is none like you, my dear!
And if your song, my soul lives, there is no fault in it.
Realize your beauty, which is the symbol of beauty –
We have a phoenix in this forest!”
The crow heard and was astonished,
He cleared his throat and opened his mouth –
While he was still awake, the cheese fell out…
The fox rushed and swallowed the bird,
He turned to the crow and heard him say this:
“A flatterer will be established forever, for he will be safe.”
Who is prepared to be a fighter?
This is considered a good idea.”
As for Mar Orev – just a little late…
The cricket and the ant
All summer long
Chirping –
And behold, the storm returned,
And with him the disgrace of hunger:
Not even a poor woman.
Of a worm or a worm!
She gave her disaster.
In the shadow of a neighboring ant,
And a plain, impassioned plea
To gargle, to make a noise –
“With the passing of the rainy days
I will pay you, live, little bird!”
Just as she lived, in the shadow of her face
There is no sharing with benefactors:
“What did you do until winter came?”
The arch of her neck was broken.
“I sang, I sang, day and night,
A song for everyone who passes by and returns.”
“Did you work in the summer? Who cheated?
"Well, then dance now!"
Alphonse de Lamartine (1869 – 1790)
the butterfly
To be born with the spring, to die with the roses,
To soar on the wings of the wind, in the vastness of pure skies,
To stand on the edge of flowers barely opening,
To be perfumed with perfumes, with the air, and with the playthings,
To shake, in the dark of the night, the winged powder,
To fly like a spirit in victorious circles in the sky,
Here is the full and happy destiny of the Sasgoni butterfly!
He is like a passion that never subsides,
And he is insatiable, his hand in every matter touching,
Returning to the sky, the end of the end, to leave behind the enchanted one!
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Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
Tomorrow at first light
Tomorrow, at the first light of day,
I'll be on my way. Look, I know you're waiting for me.
I will cross the forest, I will take the mountain path,
I cannot be far from you, it is time for me to tremble.
I go on my way, and my eyes are fixed on the thoughts,
From seeing something around me, or hearing a sound,
Alone, anonymous, bare-backed, with folded hands,
My heart is grieved, and my days will be as dark as death.
I will not watch over the falling evening breeze,
And the one who descends on the faraway cliff does not stand out,
And when I am sad, I will lie on your grave in burning sorrow.
A branch of flowering heather and a bunch of green cinquefoil.
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He would tell her
He would say to her: “You will see, if only the two of us could eat,
With a soul filled with faith, and a heart full of light, when we
Drunk with sweet ecstasy and sadness,
To untie a thousand ties that life binds us to;
If only we could abandon the ruined and desolate Paris,
We were fools; we walked for our own sake, not thinking of the pain,
Far from disturbing pride, from jealous hatred,
Seeking a corner, there were trees for us, there was grass for us;
A small house with flowers, with a bit of privacy,
A moment of silence, and the sky in the garden of the universe,
The song of the bird from above the roof, and the shadow of a shadow,
"So what, what are we really missing?"
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If you would like to read more about Victor Hugo, here are two articles that may interest you:
George Sand (1804-1876)
To the dawn
Nature is all that is seen,
Everything you want, everything you love.
All that is known, all that is believed,
Everything that excites them is self-centered.
He is beautiful in the eyes of those who see him,
He is good to those who love him,
He is righteous if they believe in him.
And honor him with his own.
Look at the heavens, they see you,
Embrace the earth, it loves you.
Truth is what we believe in.
And in nature, you are on your own.
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Gerard de Nerval (1855 – 1808)
Path in the Luxembourg Gardens
She threw it at her, the young maiden.
Light and full of life like a bird
In her hand is a flower that shines like a shining white,
And in her mouth this song now came to light.
Is this the only soul in the universe?
Her heart responded to mine, as it does to a sparrow,
At an hour that was spent on the dark night
And in the sight of the moment, she bathed him in light!
Oh, my father, my youth ended in a second...
Oh, peace, sweet ray of light that shone in my eyes,
The scent of perfume, a young maiden, harmony…
What was about to pass away, – it has slipped away from my sight!
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Alfred de Misa (1857 – 1810)
To Georges San
You, to whom you confessed, will not remember this.
Of all that my heart can contain, of the soft and the gentle,
In the hour of the night, O beautiful beloved,
I would have fallen on the nakedness of your seeds with tears!
Amidst all this, the death of memory, one day you snatched it away.
And this sweet love of mine, which was stolen
To our confused hearts, a kiss,
You, to whom you confessed, will not remember this.
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Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Evening twilight
Behold, the evening has come, friend of the city's criminals,
He shares in the talk of the town, marching in a splendid manner,
The game slowed down like a cell, and the man
He became, insatiable, a bloodthirsty predator.
He is the evening, beloved of those whose seeds
We were able to celebrate: we were tired, and it was better.
To rest from toil, the evening is comforting
In health that pain devours without mercy,
It quenches the passion of a stubborn scholar,
Giving the worker a break, urging him to sleep.
Against cruel demonic youths,
They crowd the space, heavy as glass,
They beat with their wings on the chariot and on the chariot;
And now the hidden light of a broad lantern
The fire of the breach is kindled, a fire that consumes everything,
You have opened her heart like a mound of ants,
Drip, sneak, in a roundabout way,
As an enemy army prepares for an attack,
A worm in the belly of a frog is known as a worm.
As if the worm were in my intestines.
And from the slaughterhouses a great whistle is heard,
The theater stages are open with a sigh,
The houses of pleasures gather their ashes:
Whores and pimps, a perfect evil couple,
And the hour of thieves descends upon the city,
They sang hymns in the young night,
With pleasure they entice the poor to flee –
And Phileas Fogg, wearing pearl earrings.
At this time, my soul, it is best that you gather,
And do not incline your ear to the whisper of the Messiah –
At this time, they are not sick.
Standing in the way!
The night wrapped itself around their heads like a rope,
The one who carves Goralam: eternal abyss,
And the sound of their snoring filled the silence,
They will never again be satisfied with its goodness.
Of a hot Arabian nightingale, in front of a beloved soul.
Many of these relatives will not know the taste.
From the sweetness of a warm house: they have never lived.
The sun
Along the deserted slope, falling, swords
They close their eyes, a secret to desire,
And a cruel sun, a violent light,
On the city as on the fields, on the roofs as on the fields.
I, who have been kissed, am a sword that has been shaken,
I will place beads in every corner of your house,
I stand on words as on stepping stones,
I have never heard of forgotten dream poems.
enemy
Yayarkon, the Sustaining Father,
The waists of fields are filled with song and roses are blooming;
Like a rope, the worries of the heart flutter within him,
Protests and beehives, congestion, flight;
In the mummy makers, the flesh of the immortals is revealed –
He makes like a cloud – like a cloud of water,
And to reap a harvest, to flourish, to flourish
In the heart of this immortality, which longs for flowering!
At that time, like a poet, he descends to the cities,
The simple things in words are noble in him.
Like a king, he is punctual, without noise or servants,
Fire stations as well as simple sick houses.
Louis Ratisbon (1900 – 1827)
The Violet's Wish
At the hour of Sheffler, the flower-dresser,
Bringing the skill to life
With the magnificent colors,
That beneath it, the beauties in the forest,
With the body of a butterfly
And this gentle rest
He placed her among the flowers of the field,
She stood and asked her: “My kingdom is born,
The sacrifice, which death will I still eat?
To bestow your heavenly grace?”
– “Give it to me,” said the sage humbly,
“A little grass to hide in!”
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François Coppe (1908 – 1842)
For your eyes
As on the face of stormy sea, the frigate
Carrying troubled sailors to the north,
Thus, my soul, the wound from your eyes is the stroke of paleness.
Swimming between the ocean and the agate.
For in the tender garden I saw him return to this time.
A distant vision of Eden and the games
Sweeter still than the heat that pours on our drinks
Her likeness is the poison and gloom of Hecate.
Father! We bow our heads under the burden of exile!
May we seek the infinite in the midst of bitter sorrows.
Of lovers and under the shadow of their eyelashes.
The ray of love will never fade, pure and pure.
Beneath these dreamy waves, and the sons of the curse
They will never find the lost Garden of Eden again.
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Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Autumn Song (translated by Ze'ev Jabotinsky)
Bitterness is a building
Home violin
The nature of a wild animal,
And to the heart
Painful
And a cake.
The clock will strike –
My heart was amazed.
My face will be pierced,
And with tears
I remember hours.
Which have passed
And then he will throw
Without a path
I am the storm –
He will marry, he will exile.
As much as it costs
You died in the forest.
Came upon me like a woman
Come to me like a woman:
I lie down – and penetrate.
Yes, that's good. Is that okay?
A sharp, sharp erection is implanted in you.
Like a flame in a flame; given
So too, on your mouth to kiss,
To suck your tongue, suck.
Sweet, wild, voluptuous.
Into your eyes, into your heart,
The depths of my eyes from here,
And you will realize there the desire
In the illusion of lust, blessing.
Now on a body shaken by a storm,
On the two houses of the anointed, on
A pair of electrified thighs,
On the neck of a goat, on the hair…
I will mount you on a horse-drawn chariot,
And your burden will be light as a burden;
By the hand of a laboring woman,
Until you reach the end –
You are finished, my little one!
Your beautiful pussy
Takes part in joy,
Accelerates, expands, enlarges, amazes
To swell… God! Pearl
Sparkling, sparkling eagle
The Rose Swallow – I
Swallow and immediately convinced
To wash away the thirst that is rising in me,
My hour
Full to the brim
In the right place to escape
A hot slice of your proud tongue!
Milk of the gods! Like the eye of a star
In the fragrance of almond flowers –
And my thirst for him is burning.
And greedy, thirsty we dwell!
But there is no generous approach.
As you know: at dinner
The Holy Land
Of Oncha-Kedat,
My whole being will say joy!
More information about Paul Verlaine
If you liked Verlaine's poems, I highly recommend reading Dr. Orna Lieberman's article. Paul Verlaine, cursed poet.
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
The lice beans
When the child's face glows with a bright, red glow
And it is a blessing to share dreams of a child and a stranger, to temptation.
His bed is filled with brothers – a soft, pleasant, and fragrant bracelet.
The Zucker has thin fingers that have a silvery ring at their ends.
They sit him by a window that is airy and open to the wind.
In which the wind bathes in blue and gently bathes flowers,
And in the tangle of its heavy chains, drenched in the dust of the fire,
Delicate and delicate fingers are adorned with a beautiful grace.
He listens intently to the song that the fainting ear hears.
The flower has long, pink petals like a strong blossom,
And hears with a shudder
Like a hunt for a shameful rock
They linger to kiss each other with their lips and their lips are deeply drawn to each other.
He hears gray-haired eyelashes fluttering beneath a bloody veil.
Shameless, and slamming fingers charged with electricity and force
The urge to grasp the secret of his dullness, to burst and fall
Under the sharp tip of a fingernail, the life of the lice is revealed.
This is the calm in which the intoxication of laziness, like a sigh, rises.
A puffer whose hands know how to shed long illusions,
And to the sound of the slow caress, the child felt like a hunted animal.
It darkens and withers, and a great and ferocious cry is created within him.
Excitement
On summer evenings in the grove of Tekel, I will walk along the paths,
Itching from the sting of the wheat, stepping on the thin grass:
Sleepy, I feel the freshness of the grass with my feet.
And I will let the wind wash the heads of the exiles.
I will not speak, I will not think about good or evil:
But endless love will rise in my soul,
And I will go far away, as nature commands me,
It's as if I were in the company of a woman.
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More information about Arthur Rimbaud
If you would like to read more about Arthur Rimbaud, I highly recommend the article. Sleeping in the ravine By Dr. Orna Lieberman.
Anna de Noël (1933-1876)
Here comes the radiant September breeze:
The wind is blowing hard to come in and play in the room;
But the house is getting worse before the morning,
And he leaves her outside to cry in the garden.
How the tumult of summer sounds has fallen silent!
Why don't we wrap the statues in a cloak?
Everything is found in transit, trembling and trembling; you have made me afraid.
Even the wind is shaking, and the water is frozen as I imagine.
The leaves flutter in the wind like prey;
We want to go where the birds are flying high,
But the wind holds them and blocks the path.
Tomorrow they will float on the water – worthless dead.
To calm down, the silence seems peaceful and easy;
The wind blows outside like a flute,
And everything returns to silence and love,
That under the shelter of kind skies, grace is returned.
And he returned to the heat, in the heat of the burning fire.
Cold hands and frozen feet that she is suffering from,
And the old house that she wanted to renovate
Standing in awe and trembling, sensing the coming of the new.
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Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
Mirbeau Bridge
Under the Mirabeau Bridge Seine Flowing
With whom we love
But why should I mention it?
And after all sadness – pleasures
The night is coming, the clock is striking.
The days pass, I'm still waiting.
Face to face we will stand hand in hand
While beneath us rises
Gal Leah is so
From all over the world
The night is coming, the clock is striking.
The days pass, I'm still waiting.
Love goes like flowing water.
Love goes away
How slow the days are
How violent are we?
The night is coming, the clock is striking.
The days pass, I'm still waiting.
The days go by, the weeks go by.
The times don't come back.
And not the loves
Under the Mirabeau Bridge the Seine flows
The night is coming, the clock is striking.
The days pass, I'm still waiting.
And here is the original version in French, read by the one and only Serge Reggiani:
https://youtu.be/zA1ARmiLvWo
If I too fall in the war
If I too fall sick in the war
Oh, if you mourn for a day
Then the memory will fade and fade
When a shell explodes in the skies of war
A beautiful shell, like a mimosa, is opened.
And remember that it will be shattered into pieces.
He will flood the entire world with his blood.
Seas and valleys and mountains and everything
The wonderful stars in the sky
Golden apples will ripen on the trees.
Remember that he who forgets will live in all things.
He vaporizes the ends of his magnificent chest
Your mouth, your hair that is spilling like blood
And you will never need me for anything.
He will create for you a flood of power forever.
As if a witness were splashed on the altar
He will return warm colors to the noble flower
He will add agility to the water, shining in the heat.
An unquenchable desire will then reign in the world.
Your body will be stronger in the face of a lover.
If I kill him there, and even if I swallow him
Kalil in oblivion, remember me at some point.
The burning desire in an hour of great love
And from my veins will flow a fiery blessing for you.
And your happiness will be wonderful, for your beauty is wonderful.
Oh, if the passion of life is a great desire!
Autumn is sick.
You are a good shepherd and a beloved.
You will die when the storm returns and returns to the rose gardens and returns.
The snowdrift in detail
On the orchard
You are sad.
Dead in the heart and in the soul
Snowdrops and dark berries
Deep in your lap
Diving birds
On nymphs, the nymphs of a river, who are adorned with green hair
And they never loved each other.
In a distant forest
Soldiers raised their voices
And he who loves you, loves you to the death of your soul.
Fruits fall to the ground and are left there to die.
The forest is crying, and behold, the wind is crying too.
Up, up, down, like tears, the silence of an island
Camels
The leaves
Vehicles
Gilgal
Life
Running out
Letter song number 10 to Lou
The winter is not over yet, I have only just seen the grave.
On the branches of the fig trees in the orchard, spring has yet to return.
And with him is peace, beloved, in the place of bitter strife.
We all fell asleep, but I heard the men's cries.
A Japanese sailor somewhere is itching in his left eye.
A king's son is exiled from his country and wanders the world as a refugee.
My heart is stirred by your presence, like a company of young Serbian soldiers who come out of the forest, their voices echoing around a sleeping virgin.
May she rest in peace.
The blond soldier hunted in the rain like a raven
A Belgian detained in Holland reads a newspaper in whose pages I am mentioned.
The head of the sugar queen looks at the crowd.
The ambulance driver closed his eyes so as not to see the dying victim.
The watchman sees how the greatness of a church falls like a pear that has fallen from a tree.
The English captain lights his last opium pipe while his ship is sinking.
All are joyful in the morning of peace. Hear how the call of men is joyful.
My prayer is to you, my beloved, you are my peace and my love.
And you are the one to whom my heart yearns.
In the name of our Lord, I am preparing for my imminent death.
In the name of our blessing, I hope to live well again.
In the name of our Lord, we have established armies fighting with fierce fury.
In his name, they direct their gaze towards a company of slaughtered warriors.
In his name, shells and shells sparkle like stars in the constellations.
In his name, captives march in ranks, holding the captives of injustice.
In his name my heart beats at the sight of you, my beloved.
If the love of my life were to fall into my lap and melt
Jacques Pervet (1900-1977)
I love your lips more than all my books.
I love your lips.
All my books are left.
Because with your lips
I know more than all my books.
I love your lips.
The rest of the flowers
Because your lips are sweeter than ever.
And the most delicate of all the flowers remains.
I love your lips.
The rest of the words
Because with your lips
There is no need for words anymore…
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