The poem
Above the ponds, beyond the valleys, The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas, Farther than the sun, the distant breeze, The spheres that wilt to infinity
My spirit, you move with agility And, like a good swimmer who swoons in the wave You groove the depths immensity gave, The inexpressible and male ecstasy.
>From this miasma of waste, You will be purified in superior air And drink a pure and divine liqueur, A clear fire to replace the limpid space
Behind this boredom and fatigue, this vast chagrin Whose weight moves the mists of existence, Happy is he who vigorously fans the senses Toward serene and luminous fields—wincing!
The one whose thoughts are like skylarks taken wing Across the heavens mornings in full flight —Who hovers over life, understanding without effort The language of flowers and mute things.
This translation above follows the French very roughly. Here is a more exact translation which may sacrifice some of the poetic flair above, but it will give the reader the sense of the literal translation which is far more juicy in French! Above lakes, above valleys Mountains, Woods, Clouds and Seas, Beyond the sun, beyond the ethers Beyond the confines of starry spheres My spirit, you move yourself with agility…
Read the whole commentThis translation above follows the French very roughly. Here is a more exact translation which may sacrifice some of the poetic flair above, but it will give the reader the sense of the literal translation which is far more juicy in French!
Above lakes, above valleys
Mountains, Woods, Clouds and Seas,
Beyond the sun, beyond the ethers
Beyond the confines of starry spheres
My spirit, you move yourself with agility
and, like a good swimmer who raptures in the wave,
You gaily cut across the profound immensity,
With an indescribable and male voluptuousness
You, fly far and well away from these morbid miasmas
Going to purify yourself in the superior air,
and drink like a pure and divine liqueur
The clear fire that fills the clear spaces
Behind the boredoms and vast despondents
who load their weights of misty existence
Happy, that's him of a vigorous wing who can
soar towards luminous and serene fields;
That's him of the thinkers, like skylarks,
takes a flight towards the skies in morning,
- who glides on in life, and understands without effort
the language of flowers and speechless things!
Hope that helps!
Daniel Larkin
French Literature Student
Fordham University, New York