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Nos souvenirs, toutes ces choses Qu'à tous les vents nous effeuillons Comme des pétales de roses Ou des ailes de papillons, Ont d'une joie évanouie Gardé tout le parfum secret, Et c'est une chose inouïe Comme le passé reparait. A de certains moments il semble Que le rêve dure toujours Et que l'on soit encore ensemble Comme au temps des défunts amours ; Pendant qu'à demi l'on sommeille, Bercé par la vague chanson D'une voix qui charme l'oreille, Sur les lèvres voltige un nom. Et cette heure où l'on se rappelle Son cœur follement dépensé, Est comme un frissonnement d'aile Qui s'en vient du joyeux passé.
- by Maurice Bouchor (1855 - 1929) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Ernest Amédée Chausson (1855 - 1899), "Nos souvenirs", op. 8 no. 4 (1888), published 1910 [voice and piano], from Quatre poèmes de Bouchor, no. 4. [ sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , "Els nostres records", copyright © 2016, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ENG English (Faith J. Cormier) , "Our memories", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Text added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Last modified: 2014-11-11 11:49:59
Line count: 20
Word count: 106
Our memories, all these things that we pluck, no matter when, like rose petals or the wings of butterflies, have retained all the secret perfume of faded joys. And it’s amazing how the past reappears. Sometimes it feels like the dream is still going on and that we are still together, as we were back in the days of our dead love, half asleep, lulled by the vague song of a voice that charms the ear, a name fluttering on the lips. And this hour when we remember how our heart was foolishly spent is like the trembling of a wing from the happy past.
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2014 by Faith J. Cormier, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Text added to the website: 2014-11-11 00:00:00
Last modified: 2014-11-11 11:52:00
Line count: 20
Word count: 105