October Night

Poet

The grief from which I suffered has, like a dream,now flown.

I can only compare that distant memory

To light mists that rise at dawn

And, with the dew, fade in the air away.

Muse

What ails you, now, oh, my poet!

And what is the secret pain

That keeps you from me?

Alas! I feel it lingering still

But what is this grief unknown to me

For which, so long, I have shed my tears?

Poet

It is a common fault well known to man;

But when our hearts are full of troubles,

We fancy, poor fools that we are,

That no such grief was felt before.

Muse

It is only common grief

That is found within the common soul.

Friend, may this sad mystery

From your breast escape, today.

Believe in me, in me confide;

The god of silence is austere

And a brother unto death;

Confession brings consolation

And, sometimes, a single word

Has delivered us from our affliction.

Poet

If, now, it could speak of my suffering,

I do not know the name that it could bear

-Whether love, folly, pride, experience-,

Nor whether anyone in the world could, thereby, gain.

I shall, nonetheless, recount my tale,

Since we find ourselves, alone, seated by the hearth.

Take this lyre and draw near. Let memory

Waken gently to your harmonious sounds.

Muse

Before you tell me of your woes,

O, poet, tell me, are you cured?

Dream that what you tell, today,

Lacks both love and hate.

You must remember the noble name

Of consolatrix that to me was given

And make me not complicit

In the passions that you have lost.

Poet

I am so well cured of that disease,

That I, sometimes, doubt that thoughts can be recalled ;

And when I think of places where I have risked my life,

I think that in my stead, I see a stranger's face.

Muse, be not afeared, the breath that you inspired

Invests us both, without demur, with mutual trust.

It is sweet to weep, it is sweet to smile

At memories of sorrows that, now, we should forget.

Muse

Like a watchful mother

At the cradle of her belovèd son,

Do I thus lean atremble

Over the heart that to me was closed.

Speak, friend, - my lyre awaits

With faint and plaintive note

Ready to follow the sound of your voice

And, in a ray of light,

Faintly, like a vision,

Shadows of another age shall pass.

Poet

Days of toil! Days, alone, through which I lived!

O, thrice so dear is solitude!

God be praised; I have, however, returned

To my old study!

Poor and shabby, walls so long deserted,

Dusty chairs, faithful lamp,

O, my palace, my little universe,

And you, my Muse, O, immortally young.

God be praised! Now, let us sing!

Yes. I shall reveal my soul to you;

You shall know all when I tell you of

The evil that a woman wrought ;

For, there is one, O, my poor friends

(Alas! Perhaps you know that),

It is a woman who has subjected me,

As if I were a serf and she my master.

A detested yoke! Through her has my heart

Lost its power and its youth;-

Yet, however, beside my lover,

I had found a glimpse of happiness.

Beside the brook when we walked together

At evening on the silver sand

When, before us, from afar, the white mist wavered

As we strayed along the path,

I see again, in the rays of the moon

Her beautiful body sink into my arms…

Speak no more of that… - I had not foreseen

Where fate would lead me.

Then, doubtless, angry gods

Were in need of a victim;

For she has punished me as for the crime

Of having tried to be happy.

Muse

The image of a sweet memory

Offers itself to your thoughts.

It is but a trace that, now, is left

Why be fearful of its return?

Would your tale be faithful

In denying the days you loved?

If fortune has been cruel to you,

Young man, do at least the same as she

And smile at your first loves.

Poet

No. It is at my misfortune that I feign to smile.

Muse, I have told you: I shall, without emotion,

Tell you of my woes, my dreams, my ecstasy,

And shall state the time, the hour and the place.

It was, as I remember, a night in autumn,

Sad and cold, a little resembling that of now;

The murmur of the wind, with its constant tone

Rocks my weary brain with dark unease.

I was at the window, waiting for my lover;

And, whilst listening in the darkness,

I felt in my soul a great distress

That brought suspicion of betrayal.

The street where I lodged was dark and deserted;

Some shadows passed, lantern held in hand,

When the wind whistled through the opened door,

Heard from afar like a human sigh.

I know not, to be truthful, to what unfortunate omen

My unquiet spirit was then abandoned.

I gathered, in vain, the remains of my courage

But felt a shudder when the hour struck.

She did not come. Alone, with lowered head,

I stared with lingering look at walls and road,-

And I have not told you how intense the ardour

That that unfaithful woman had lit within my breast;

I loved only her in all the world and to live a day apart

Seemed to me a destiny worse than death.

But I remember that, in that cruel night,

I struggled long to break my bond.

I denounced her a hundred times as perfidious and disloyal;

I numbered all the troubles she had caused me.

Alas! At remembrance of her fatal beauty

What evils, what griefs were not allayed!

Day broke at last. - Weary of waiting,

I slept upon the balcony;

I opened my eyes to the rising sun

And raised my gaze to dazzling day.

Suddenly, at a bend in the narrow street,

I heard on the gravel the faint sound of a step…

Great God, preserve me! I perceived that it was she;

She entered, but from where? What did you do last night?

Say, is it me that you want? What brings you here at this hour?

Where has this beautiful form lain 'til day?

Whilst on this balcony, alone, I sleep and I weep,

But, in which place, in which bed, at whom have you smiled ?

Perfidy! Audacity! Is it still possible

That you come to offer your mouth to my kisses?

What do you want? Through which unquenched thirst

Dare you attract me into exhausted arms?

Go, withdraw, mere spectre of a lover!

Return to the grave from which you were raised;

Leave me forever to forget my youth

And when of you I think, it will be merely a dream.

Muse

Calm yourself, I do implore;

Your words have made me shudder.

Oh, my belovèd! Your wound

May still be easily opened again.

Alas! Is it so deep?

And the miseries of the world

So slow to subside!

Forget, my child, and, from your soul,

Chase out the name of this wanton girl

That I refuse to pronounce.

Poet

Shame on her, the first

To have taught me treason

And horror and anger

That has lost me my reason!

Shame on her, baleful woman,

Whose disastrous loves

Have buried in shadow

My spring and my days of youth!

It is your voice, it is your smile,

It is your corrupting gaze

That has taught me to revile

What had seemed a pleasure;

It is your youth and your charms

That have made me despair;

And I would doubt the tears

If I had seen you cry.

Shame on you, I was still

As simple as a child;

Like a flower at dawn

My heart had opened to your love

And, thus, a heart with no defence

Could, without strain, be abused;

But to play with innocence

Was easier still!

Shame on you! You were mother

To my earliest griefs

And you made my eyes

Stream with a fountain of tears!

They flow, to be sure,

And nothing can mop them dry;

For they emerge from a wound

That nothing can heal;

But in that bitter spring

I shall, at least, be able to wash off,

And, thereby, to take leave of, I hope,

A memory now abhorred.

Muse

Poet, that is enough. Infidelity is charged;

But your illusion lasted so short a time.

Do not offend the day when it is of her you speak;

If you wish for love, you must respect your own.

If the effort is too much for the human weakness

Of forgiving evils that come to us from others,

Save yourself, at least, the torment of hatred;

In default of forgiveness, let forgetfulness be ours.

The dead sleep in peace in the bosom of the earth;

Let, thus, our faded feelings also rest.

These relics of the heart have gathered dust;

No hand must disturb their sacred remains.

Why, in telling of your great suffering,

Do you not see that a dream and love deceive?

That providence acts without a motive,

And, in your distraction, think that God has struck you?

The blow of which you tell may, perhaps, have saved you,

Child ; for, by this means, your heart has opened.

Man is but apprentice and sadness is his master

And none can know until he suffers.

It is harsh law but a law supreme,

As old as the world and fate,

That we must know misfortune to be baptised

And that this sad price must be paid by all.

The harvest must have the dew in order to mature;

Man must have his tears in order to live and feel;

Joy has a broken plant as symbol,

Still wet with rain and covered with flowers.

Have you not declared recovery from your folly?

Are you not young, happy, and always welcomed?

How could the easy pleasures that make a joyful life

Be treasured if, at first, you had not wept?

If, until the close of day, seated in the heather,

You were, with a friend of old, to drink in freedom,

Tell me, with what happy heart you would raise your glass

If you had not known the value of joy?

Would you love the flowers, the meadows and the scenery,

The sonnets of Petrarch and the song of the birds,

Michelangelo and the arts, Shakespeare and nature

If you were to remember your tears of old?

Could you comprehend the untold harmonies of heaven,

The silence of night, the murmur of waves

If some part there of sleepless night or fever

Had not brought thoughts of eternal repose?

Have you not now a beautiful lover?

And until you fall asleep, grasping her hand,

Does not the distant memory of your woes of youth

Render more sweet her smile divine?

Do you not also go walking together

In the depths of the wood in flower, on the silver sand?

And does not the spectre of aspen white

In that green palace, show you the way?

Then, do you not see in the rays of the moon,

As in former times, a beautiful form sink into your arms

And, if on that path you were to meet Fortune again,

Would you not follow her singing?

Of what do you complain? Immortal hope

Is renewed in you by the hand of your woes.

Why hate your experience of youth

And detest the trials that strengthened your soul?

Oh, my child! Pity this faithless beauty

Over whom your eyes have wept since then;

Pity her. A woman whom God has placed you near

To discover in suffering the secret of pleasure.

The task was painful; perhaps she loved you

But fate decreed that she should break your heart.

She knew of life and exposed you to it;

Another has reaped the fruit of your pain.

Pity her. Her sad love has passed as if a dream;

She has seen your wound and was unable to close it

But in her tears, believe me, there was no lie.

When all is over, pity her; for, now, you know how to love.

Poet

You speak truly: hate is irreverent

And carries a frisson of horror

When this sleeping serpent

Uncoils within our hearts.

Listen to me, O goddess!

And be witness to my oath:

By the blue eyes of my belovèd,

And by the azure of the skies;

By this brilliant spark

That bears the name of Venus

And, like a trembling pearl

Sparkles on the far horizon;

By the grandeur of nature,

By the benevolence of the creator,

By the pure and tranquil purity

Of the star so dear to travellers,

By the grass of the fields,

By the forests and green meadows,

By the strength of life,

By the vitality of creation,

I banish from my memory

The remains of my mad love:

A mysterious and dark history

That will slumber in the past!

And to you, who was, once, a friend,

Bearing such promise and sweetest name,

I resolve that the hour when I forget you

Must also be that of forgiveness.

Let us forgive; - I break the spell

That united us before God.

With one last tear,

Take your eternal farewell.

- And now, fair dreamer,

Now, Muse, to our loves!

Sing me a joyful song

As in the first of our beautiful days.

Already, the fragrant lawn

Wafts the approach of morn;

Come, waken my belovèd,

And pluck the garden flowers

Come to see immortal nature

Emerge from the veils of slumber,

Where we become reborn

In the rays of the morning sun.