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| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Dieu me dounerait-il sa plus belle etoile, |
| + | J’aime miens l’enfant qu’il m’a donne,|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Enfants, voici des bcenfs qui passent; |
| + | Cachez vos rouges tabliers,|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Lorsquo I'entant parait le cerole qui ratlmire.|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Oh! j’ai vu de si pres les foules miserablos. |
| + | I have looked so closely on the miserable crowd; |
| + | Its license and its insolence, its clamors coarse and loud; |
| + | Wretches by civil war to greatness who increased; |
| + | On the judge who should himself he tried; the impure priest. |
| + | Serving and smirching God, preaching Yes and proving No— |
| + | Seen so closely all the vileness man’s beauty hides below; |
| + | In good the ill, in truth the lie; in glory’s stately march |
| + | Proud empty Nothings strutting on ’neath the triumphal arch: |
| + | I've seen so much that bends, that bites, that runs away, |
| + | That feeble, now, and old, and worn, it is my choice to stray |
| + | Hereafter to the end alone in forest wilds untrod. |
| + | There may I bleed and meditate. And even should a god |
| + | Once more to bribe me hack to cities offer me |
| + | Glory, and youth, and love, and strength, and victory, |
| + | It might prove well that I my woodland cave had kept, |
| + | For I am not too sure that I might not accept!|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem='Tween us and Heaven as veils and bars, |
| + | A peace profound all lit with stars ; |
| + | ’Tis this God thinks of as He keeps |
| + | The poet where the baby sleeps! |
| + | |
| + | “Lætitia Rerum” |
| + | |
| + | L’aragne sur l’eaii fait des ronds; |
| + | O.' ciel bleu ! l'ombre est sous la treille |
| + | Le jour tremble, et les mousherons |
| + | Yiennent vous parler a l'oreille. |
| + | |
| + | Wanders about the hungry bee, |
| + | The yellow wasp bestirs him more, |
| + | For all the perfume-drinkers, see, |
| + | The spring sets out her lavish store. |
| + | |
| + | Behold the bees to banquet pass, |
| + | Prinked out with proper etiquette. |
| + | The rosebud is a brimming glass; |
| + | The lily is a table set. |
| + | |
| + | From flowers as yet that scarce unclose |
| + | The gnat quaffs gold in ecstacy, |
| + | And in his tavern of a rose |
| + | Dead-drunken lies the butterfly !|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Sans doute il est tard, car voici |
| + | Qne vient tout près de moi chanter mon rouge-garget |
| + | Yacarme de inarteaux lointains dans une forge. |
| + | L’eau clapote. On entend haleter un steamer. |
| + | One mouche entre. Souffle immense de la men|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=Towards noon |
| + | Jean has an amiable habit of sleeping. |
| + | Her mother a moment may breathe and repose |
| + | For there’s labor in serving if only a rose ; |
| + | We watch her, we smile, and our cares vanish all, |
| + | She’s a star with the further advantage she’s small. |
| + | Tho shadow in love with her seems to adore her. |
| + | And the breeze holds its breath as it light passes o’er her. |
| + | But, soft! the lids open, out goes one plump arm, |
| + | One foot, then the other, and then with such charm |
| + | That the angels must bend from the blue heavens to hear |
| + | She babbles and coos. Then the mother draws near. |
| + | Her accents are music ; she bends o’er the nest. |
| + | Seeks what term of endearment will fit it the best. |
| + | Her joy, her bud-angel, her “ nightmare !” The mother |
| + | Says, “ Oho! you’re awake again, then, Little Bother ! ”|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | ... |
| + | |
| + | {{Style S-HPB SB. Editors note|From “The Moon”, orig: “[https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/La_Lune_(Hugo) La Lune]”, part II “[http://poesie.webnet.fr/lesgrandsclassiques/poemes/victor_hugo/choses_du_soir.html Choses du soir]”|center}} |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=The fog is cold and the copse is gray ; |
| + | The steers as they move to the water, low ; |
| + | The moon from the black clouds taking way, |
| + | A light affright seems to come and go. |
| + | Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où, |
| + | Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou. |
| + | |
| + | The traveller trudges, the earth is brown. |
| + | A shadow chases, a shade leads on. |
| + | Light where the sun climbs, white where it goes down. |
| + | Moonlight yonder, and hither the dawn. |
| + | |
| + | The sitting sorceress mutters her spell, |
| + | To the roof the spider his web binds up; |
| + | Glow sprites flash and shake in the fires of the dell |
| + | Like pistils of gold in a tulip’s cup. |
| + | |
| + | Up over the sea come the night-fogs white; |
| + | Shipwreck is dogging a shivering mast. |
| + | Says the wind, “ To-morrow ” the wave, “'To-night ;” |
| + | Despairing voices flutter past. |
| + | |
| + | The coach sets out from Avranche for Fougère ; |
| + | Its whip in the dusk makes a lightning-flash. |
| + | This is the moment when floating in air, |
| + | The gloom gathers vast round the murmurs that clash. |
| + | |
| + | In each forest-vista a tire glows. |
| + | A graveyard is seen on the mountain-height; |
| + | Where does God find all the gloom that He throws |
| + | O’er the broken heart and the falling night ? |
| + | |
| + | Silver flakes tremble along the sands ; |
| + | The chalky cliff with gold is lined ; |
| + | The shepherd the flight of monstrous bands |
| + | Of devils follows athwart, the wind. |
| + | |
| + | Each chimney dons a hodden plume ; |
| + | With his faggot the woodman hastes to house ; |
| + | You hear o'er the rush of the rivulet’s flume |
| + | The shiver and moan of the wind-swayed, boughs. |
| + | |
| + | Gaunt wolves, morose, howl in hungry dreams ; |
| + | The river races, the clouds have fled ; |
| + | Behind the pane the lamp-light gleams |
| + | On a little child with a flaxen head. |
| + | |
| + | Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où, |
| + | Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou. |
| + | |
| + | … |
| + | Peut-être, là-haut, il est, dans l’Ignoré, |
| + | Un dieu supérieur aux dieux que nous rêvâmes, |
| + | Capable de donner des astres à des âmes.|signature=}} |
| + | |
| + | {{Style P-Poem|poem=“ [https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Le_Poème_du_Jardin_des_Plantes Le poeme du Jardin des Plantes] ” |
| + | Le comte de Buffon fut bonhomme, il créa |
| + | Ce jardin imité d’Évandre et de Rhéa |
| + | Et plein d’ours plus savants que ceux de la Sorbonne, |
| + | Afin que Jeanne y puisse aller avec sa bonne ; |
| + | … |
| + | Le bon goût, ce ruisseau, par Nisard, ce concierge, |
| + | Livre au singe excessif la forêt, cette vierge, |
| + | Et permet à Dupin de ressembler aux chiens. |
| + | (Pauvres chiens !)<ref>{{Style S-HPB SB. Editors note|The rest of original verses in French could be found in [https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Catégorie:Poèmes_de_Victor_Hugo Wikisource]}}</ref>|signature=}} |
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