lunes, 11 de diciembre de 2006

THE CLAIRE HOURS

Desgraciadamente mi francés no alcanza el nivel requerido para apreciara las sutileza del amigo Emile, de modo que lo traduciré al inglés aprovechando las mágicas herramientas de Google:

The Project Gutenberg EBook of the Clear Hours, by Emile Verhaeren This eBook is for the uses of anyone anywhere At No cost and with almost No restrictions whatsoever. You may Copy it, give it away gold Re-uses it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook gold online At www.gutenberg.net: The Clear Hours Author: Emile Verhaeren Release Dates: November 12, 2003 [EBook #10061] Language: French Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK the CLEAR HOURS *** Produced by Christine De Ryck and PG Distributed Proofreaders. This spins was produced from images generously made available by the Library main road of France (BnF/Gallica) At http://gallica.bnf.fr. EM. Verhaeren clear hours 1896 O the splendour of our joy, Woven out of gold in the silk air! Here the soft house and its light pinion, And the garden and the orchard. Here the bench, under the apple trees From where thins out the leaves of itself white spring, A passing very close to petals and slow. Here flights of luminous Plânant woodpigeons, as of predict, In the clear sky of the landscape. Here--similar with kisses fallen on ground From the mouth from the frail azure-- Two blue simple and pure ponds, naively Bordered of flowers involuntary. O the splendour of our joy and us same, In this garden where we live our emblems! Over there, from slow forms pass, are this our two hearts which are rested, With the length of wood and the terraces? Are this your centres, are this your eyes These two flowers of harmonious gold? And these grasses--one would say Mouillés plumages in the source that they fold-- Are this your fresh hair and smooth? Admittedly, no shelter is worth the clear orchard, Nor the house with light roof, Nor this garden, where the sky weaves This expensive climate with our two hearts. Though we see it flowering in front of our eyes, This clear garden where we pass quiet, It is more still in us than is fertilized merriest and the softest garden of the world. Because we live all the flowers, All grasses, all the palms In our laughter and our tears Of pure happiness and calms. Because we live all them transparencies Of the blue pond which reflects the exubérance gold pinks and large lilies vermeils: Sun mouths and lips. Because we live all the Dardée joy in cries of celebrates and spring, In our consents, where are côtoient the enthusiastic and exciting words. Oh! say, it is well in us that fertilizes merriest and clear garden of the world. It barbarian capital, where monsters twist, Soudés between them, with blows of claws and teeth, In an insane tumult of blood, of burning cries, wounds and mouths which between-bite themselves, It was myself, before you were mienne, O you it new, ô you it old! Who wines with me of the loins of eternity, With, between your hands, heat and kindness. I feel in you the same very deep things That in myself to sleep And our thirst for remembering To drink the echo, where our last corresponds. Our eyes had to cry at the same hours, Without the knowledge, during childhood: To have same fears, same happinesses, Same flashes of confidence: Because I am bound to you by the unknown Which fixed me, formerly at the bottom of the avenues By where my adventurous life passed, And, certainly, if I had looked at better, I could have seen for a long time to open your eyes in its eyelids. sky harms about it was unfolded And the moon seems to take care On deadened silence. All is so pure and clear, All is so pure and so pale in the air And on the lakes of the friendly landscape, That it distresses, the water drop Which falls from a reed And tinkle and then keep silent itself in water. But I have your hands between mine And your eyes sure, which retain me, Of theirs enthusiasms, so gently; And I smell you so well in peace of any thing, That nothing, not even a fugitive suspicion of fear, will not disturb, was this one moment, the holy confidence Which sleeps in us as a child rests. Each hour, where I think of your simply major Si kindness, I merge in prayers towards you. I came so late Towards softness from your glance And so far, towards your two tended hands, Quietly, by through the extents! I had in me so much tough rust Which corroded me, with teeth raptors, confidence; I was if heavy, I was so tired, I were so old of mistrust, I were so heavy, I were so tired Of the vain way of all my steps. I deserved if little the marvellous joy of seeing your feet to illuminate my way, That I remain about it still trembling and almost in tears, And humble, forever, opposite happiness. You raise sometimes this benign grace Of the morning quiet and sinuous garden Which unrolls, over there, among the blue distances, His soft ways curved in swan necks. And, other times, you are to me the clear shiver Of the wind fast and gleaming Which passes, with his fingers of flash, In water hairs of the white pond. With the good touch from your two hands, I feel like sheets gently to pass very close to Me; That midday burns the garden. The shades, at once collect the expensive words whose your being trembled. Each moment seems to me, thanks to you, Passer thus divinement in me. Also, when the hour comes the pale night, Where you conceal yourself in yourself, By closing again the eyes, Sens you my soft glance dévotieux, Plus humble and length that a prayer, To thank the tien under your closed eyelids? Oh! let strike with carry the hand which passes with its futile fingers; Our hour is so single, and the remainder which imports, the remainder, with its futile fingers. Let pass, by the way, the sad one and tiring joy, With its rattles in hands. Leave to go up, leave bruire And from to go away the laughter; Let pass the crowd and her thousands of voice. The moment is so beautiful of light, In the garden, around us, the moment is if rare of light trémière, In our heart, at the bottom of us. All preaches us not to await more anything Of what comes or passes, With songs weary And the tired arm by ways. And to remain the soft ones which bless the day. Even in front of the night of barricaded shade, Liking in us, over all, the idea That bellement we have our love. As at the naive ages, I gave you my heart, As well as a full flower Which opens, with light dew; Between its frail folds, my mouth was posed. The flower, I gathered with pre of the flowers in flame; Do not say anything to him: because the word between us two Would be banal, and all the words are hazardous. It is through the eyes that the heart listens to a heart. The flower which is my heart and my consent, Quite simply, with your lips entrusts That it is honest and clear and good, and that one trusts the virgin love, as a child trusts God. Let us let the spirit flower on the hills, In capricious ways of vanity; And let us make simple reception with the sincerity Which holds our two clear hearts, in its crystalline hands; And nothing is beautiful like a confession of hearts, One with the other in the evening when the flame Of uncountable diamonds Burns, like as many eyes Silencieux, the silence of firmaments. The young spring and voluntary Which vêt it garden of beauty Elucidates our voices and our words And them soak in its limpidity. Breeze and lips of sheets Chatter--and In us the syllables thin out the leaves of of their clearness. But the best of us parks And flees the material words; Simple and soft dumb dash Better than any verb moors Our happiness with its true sky: That of tone heart, to two knees, Quite simply, in front of mine, And of my heart, to two knees, Very gently, in front of is due. Slowly come to sit down Close to the floor, of which the evening Firm the flowers of quiet light, Lets filter great night in you: We are too happy so that its sea of Trouble fear our prayer. Up there, the pure crystal of stars lights. Here the firmament plus Net and translucent That a blue pond or that a stained glass of apse; And then here the sky which looks through. Thousand votes of enormous mystery Speak around you. The thousand whole natural laws Move around you, the money arcs of the invisible one Take your heart and its dash for target, But you are not afraid, oh! simple heart, But you are not afraid, since your faith Is that all the ground collaborates A this love which made to hatch the life and its mystery in you. Thus join the hands quietly And gently adores; A great council of purity And of divine intimacy Floats, like strange dawn, Under the minuits of the firmament. How much it is easily charmed, With its eyes of extase igneous, It, the soft one and resigned So simply in front of the life. This evening, as a glance surprised it enthusiastic, And as a word transported it To the pure garden of joy, where it was All at the same time queen and maidservant. Humble of it, but burning of us, It was with whom ploierait the two knees, to collect the marvellous happiness Which, mutual, overflowed us of the heart. We listened to keep silent, in us, the violence Of the exciting love which imprisoned our arms And living it Dire silence of the words that us did not know. At times when lengthily I had suffered Where the hours were to me traps, You to me appeared the accessible light Which shone, with the windows, the winter, At the funds of the evenings, on snow. Your clearness of hospital heart Passed very close to, without wounding it, my heart, Like a hand of quiet heat; A tepid hope, a lenient word, Penetrated in me very slowly; Then came good confidence And the frankness and tenderness and alliance, Enfin, of our two friendly hands, One evening of clear agreement and soft lull. Since, although the summer succeeded freezing, In ourselves and under the sky, Whose perpetuated flames gold Pavoisent all the ways of our thoughts, And which the love became the immense flower, Being born from the proud desire, Which, unceasingly, for better encor to grow, In our heart, is started again, I look at always the small light Which was soft for me, the first. I detail, neither which we are One for the other, neither the pourquois, nor the reasons: Any doubt died, in this garden of flowerings Which opens in us and out of us, if far from the men. I do not reason, and do not please know, And nothing will disturb what is only mystery And which soft dashes and which involuntary enthusiasm And which quiet rise towards our squares of hope. I feel you clear before you to include/understand such; And it is my joy, infinitely, Of to test me so gently magnet, Without asking why your voice calls me. Let us be simple and good--and that the day is to Us been useful tenderness and light, And let say that the life is not made for a similar love. With these queens who slowly descend the gold staircases and flowers from the legend, In my dream, sometimes, I pair you; I give you names which marry With clearness, splendour and the joy, And bruissent in silk syllables, With the length of the worms frames like a estrade For the dance of the words and theirs beautiful parades. But how much quickly play is wearied, A to see you soft and deep and if little That of which one enjolive attitudes; Your so clear and pure face and white of certainty, Your soft hands of child in peace on your knees, Your centres raising itself at the rate/rhythm of your pulse Which beats like your immense and ingenuous heart, Oh! how all, except that and your prayer, Oh! as all is poor and useless, out the light Which looks at me and which accomodates me in your naked eyes. I dedicate to your tears, with your smile, My softer thoughts, Those which I say to you, those also Which remain undetermined And too deep to say them. I dedicate to your tears, your smile all your heart, my heart, With his tears and his smiles And his kiss. You see, the dawn is born on erased ground, Of the bonds of shade seem to slip And from to go away, with melancholy; The water of the ponds runs out and filters its noise, the grass lights and the corollas are unfolded, And drink them of gold désenlacent themselves night. Oh! say, capacity one day, Entrer thus the full light; Oh! say, to be able one day With all the flowers of our hearts trémières, Without more any veil on us, Without more any mystery in us, Oh say, capacity, one day, Entrer to two the lucid love! I drown in your two eyes my very whole heart And the insane dash of this heart éperdue, So that, plunged in their softness and their clear and better soaked prayer, Plus, it is returned to me. To link itself to purify its being, Like two gold stained glasses in the same apse Cross their fires differently lucid And penetrate themselves! I am sometimes so heavy, so tired, to be that which cannot Be perfect, as it wants to be! My heart fights against its wishes, My heart of which bad plants, Between rocks of stubbornness, Draw up, cunningly, Their flowers of ink or ember; My so false heart, so true, according to the days, My contradictory heart, My always exaggerated heart Of immense joy or fear attentatoire. To love us eyes, Let us wash our two glances, of those Which we crossed, by thousands, in the life Mauvaise and controlled. The paddle is in flower and in dew And in Very soft filtered light: One would believe to see soft feathers Of money and sun, through fogs, To pass very close to and cherish, in the garden, foams. Our blue and marvellous ponds Tremble and become animated of gleaming gold, the émeraudés flights, under the trees, circulate; And clearness, out of the ways, of the fields, of the hedges, Sweeps ash wet, where drag encor the twilight. At the field of our love, the summer is continued: A gold peacock, over there crosses an avenue; Petals pavoisent, --Pearls, emeralds, turquoises-- The uniform sleep of the green grasses; Our blue ponds shine, covered With the white kiss of the water lilies of snows; With the quincunxes, our groseillers makes processions; An insect of prism irritates a heart of flower; Marvellous underwoods marble gleams; And, like light bubbles, thousand bees On bunches of money, vibrate, with the length of the treillised vineyards. The air is so beautiful that it appears chatoyant; Under major and radiant midday, One would say that it stirs up in pinks of light; While to far, the usual roads, Such of slow gestures which lengthen vermeils, A the given lustre to horizon, go up towards the sun. Admittedly, the diamond dress of the beautiful summer vêt no garden of also pure clearness; And it is the single joy hatched in our two hearts Which reconnait its life in these bouquets of flames. That your clear eyes, your eyes of summer, are to Me, on ground, the images of kindness. Let us leave our set ablaze hearts gold Exalter each flame of our thoughts. That my two hands against your heart are to You, on ground, the emblems of softness. Let us live similar with two prayers éperdues One towards the other, at any hour, tended. That our kisses on our charmed mouths Us are on ground, the symbols of our life. Say to me, my simple and my quiet friend, Dis, how much the absence, even of a day, Attriste and pokes the love And awakes it, in its deadened burns. I from go away to the front of those Which return from the marvellous distances, Where, at dawn, you went; I sit down under a tree, with the turning of the alley, And, on the road, épiant their arrival, I look at and look at, with enthusiasm, their clear Encore eyes to have seen you. And I would like to kiss their fingers which touched you, And to shout to them of the words which they would not include/understand, And I listen to a long time give rhythm their steps Towards the shade, where the old evenings hold the leaning night. In these hours when us let us be lost Si far from all that is not ourselves. Which blood lustral or which baptism Bathes our hearts towards all the love tended? Joining the hands, without one requesting, Tightening the arms, without one shouting, But adoring one knows what Moreover remote and more pure only oneself, the spirit enthusiast and ingenuous, Known as, like one bases himself, as one lives oneself in the unknown. How one damages oneself in the presence Of these hours of supreme existence, As the heart would like skies to seek there new gods, Oh! distressing and marvellous joy And the daring hope to be, one day, through death even, the prey Of these quiet pangs. Oh! this Si happiness rare and so frail sometimes That it frightens us! We conceal our voices, And make we in vain as a tent, With all your hair, us to create a sure shelter, Souvent the anguish in our hearts ferments. But our love being like an angel with knees, Prie and begs, That the future gives to others that us Même tenderness and even life, So that their fate of our fate is not jealous. And then, at the bad days, when the great evenings Illimitent, jusques the sky, despair, We request forgiveness from the night which ignites softness of our heart. Let us live, in our love and our heat, Vivons so boldly our more beautiful thoughts Than they are interlaced, harmonized A the supreme extase and whole enthusiasm. Because in our similar hearts, Something moreover crowned than us And purer and larger wakes up, Joignons hands for to adore through us. It does not matter that we have only cries or tears For humbly to define it, And that so rare and so powerful is the charm, That to taste it, our hearts are ready with to weaken. Let us remain nevertheless and for always, the insane ones Of this love almost relentless, And the enthusiasts, to two knees, Of sudden God who reigns in us, If violent one and so ardently soft That it hurts us and overpowers us. As soon as that our mouths are touched, We smell ourselves so much more lights of ourselves Which one would say of the Gods who like And who link themselves in ourselves; We smell ourselves the heart so divinement fresh And if renewed by their light First That the universe, under their clearness, appears to us. The joy is in our eyes the single flower of the world Which spendthrift and fertilizes himself, Innombrable, on our roads of in bottom; As there high, by heap, In silk countries where travel of the veils Brille the flower myriadaire of stars. The order dazzles us, like fires, ash, All lights us and appears to us: torch; Our simpler words have a direction so beautiful Than repeat we them for unceasingly hearing. We are the victorious sublimes Which conquer eternity, Without no pride and thinking of tiny time: And our love always seems to us to have been. So that nothing us two escape our pressure, If deep that it is holy And that through the body even, the love is clear, We go down together to the garden from your flesh. Your centres are there, as well as offerings, And your two hands are tended to me; And nothing is worth naive the provende words known as and heard. Shade of the white branches travel Among your throat and your face And your hair untie their flowering, In garlands, on the grasses. The night is very of blue money, the night is a beautiful quiet bed, the soft night, whose breezes go, with one, Effeuiller the large lilies darted with the moonlight. Although already, this evening, the Laisse autumn with feel and with orées, Like gilded hands, Lentes, sheets to choir; Although already the autumn, This evening, with its arms of wind, Harvests On the enthusiastic rose trees, the petals and their paleness, do not leave anything of our two Tomber hearts sudden with these flowers. But both around the flames Of the gold hearth of the memory, But both we blottissons, the hands with fire and the knees. Against mournings to be feared or come, the time Counters which fixes at any heat its end, Against our terror, against ourselves, finally, Blottissons us, close to the hearth, Which the memory in us makes blaze. And if the autumn obère A large sides of shade and storms plânants, wood, the lawns and the ponds, That its pain at least does not deteriorate the interior garden tranquillized, Where link, in the light, the equal steps of our thoughts. The gift of the body, when the heart is given is not only the result Of two tendernesses involved One towards the other, éperdûment. You are not happy of your simple Si flesh, in his native beauty, That for, with enthusiasm, to quote complete of it to me and total alms. And I am given to you, not knowing anything If not but I exalte you to perhaps know, Toujours better and purer Since your soft body offered its festival to the mien. Love, oh! that it is to us perspicacity Single, and single reason of the heart, A us, whose more fol happiness Is to be insane of confidence. Was it in us only one tenderness, a thought, a joy, a promise, Which did not go, of itself, with the front of our steps? Was a prayer in secrecy heard, Of which we did not tighten the hands tended With softness, on our centre? It was only one call, only one intention, a quiet wish or violent one Of which we didn't open out the dash? And, us thus liking, Our hearts were gone from there, such of the apostles, Towards the soft ones hearts timid and stiff With the others: They invited them, by the thought, to feel with ours been engaged, to proclaim the love with frank heats, As people of flowers like the same branch Which suspends it and bathes it in sun; And our heart, as increased, in this awakening, started to celebrate all that likes, Magnifiant the love for the love even, And to cherish, divinement, of an insane desire, the whole world which is summarized in us. The beautiful flowered garden of flames Which seemed to us the double or the mirror, Clear garden that us portions in the heart, crystallizes in gel and gold, this evening. A great white silence is descended to sit down Là-bas, at the marble horizons, Towards where from go away, by processions, the trees With their immense and blue And regular shade, beside them. No breath of wind, no breath. The large veils of the cold, are only unfolded, of plain in plain, On marshes of money or roads in cross. The stars appear to live. Like steel, the white frost shines, Through the translucent and frozen air. Lights Ad infinitum pulverized metals, seem to snow Of the paleness of the copper moon. All is flutter in immobility. And it is the divine hour, where the spirit is haunted By these thousand glances which projects on ground, Towards the chances of human misery, good and pure one and unchangeable eternity. If it never happens That we are, without the knowledge, Souffrance or sorrow or despair, One for the other; if it were made That tiredness or the banal pleasure Slackened in us the gold arc of the high desire; If the crystal of the pure thought Of our love must break, If despite everything, I felt Vaincu not to have been Assez in prey with the divine vastness Of kindness; Then, oh! let us tighten like two insane sublimes Which under the broken skies, are studded with the summits Nevertheless. --And of a single rise the heart out of sun, are exaltent in death.

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