by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
Translation by Bergen Weeks Applegate (b. 1865)

Le rossignol
Language: French (Français) 
Available translation(s): HUN
Comme un vol criard d'oiseaux en émoi,
Tous mes souvenirs s'abattent sur moi,
S'abattent parmi le feuillage jaune
De mon coeur mirant son tronc plié d'aune
Au tain violet de l'eau des Regrets,
Qui mélancoliquement coule auprès,
S'abattent, et puis la rumeur mauvaise
Qu'une brise moite en montant apaise,
S'éteint par degrés dans l'arbre, si bien
Qu'au bout d'un instant on n'entend plus rien,
Plus rien que la voix célébrant l'Absente,
Plus rien que la voix - ô si languissante! -
De l'oiseau qui fut mon Premier Amour,
Et qui chante encor comme au premier jour;
Et, dans la splendeur triste d'une lune
Se levant blafarde et solennelle, une
Nuit mélancolique et lourde d'été,
Pleine de silence et d'obscurité,
Berce sur l'azur qu'un vent doux effleure
L'arbre qui frissonne et l'oiseau qui pleure.

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:

Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (Bergen Weeks Applegate) , "The nightingale", appears in Poems Saturnine, in Somber Landscapes, no. 7, Chicago, Ralph Fletcher Seymour, The Alderbrink Press, first published 1916
  • HUN Hungarian (Magyar) (Tamás Rédey) , "A fülemüle", copyright © 2015, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
The nightingale
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
Like frightened birds loud calling in their flight,
My memories beat upon me with their might.
Beat on the yellow foliage of my heart,
That, like a lonely alder grown apart,
Mirrors its trunk and blighted branches wet
In the dull violet waters of Regret
That slow and ever mournfully flow near.
And then the troubled sound made by a drear
Moist breeze that mounts then slowly dies—so well
That in the end I hear from out the dell
Only the low clear voice celebrating
The absent Loved One—O so languishing!
Of that sweet bird, my first Love, whose warm lay
Comes back again as in the first glad day;
And in the splendor sad a glow where soon
Rises all pale and solemnly the moon;
A melancholy twilight full of summer,
Of silence and obscurity—no murmur
Rocked on the azure that the sweet wind sweeps—
Only the tree that trembles—the bird that weeps.

Confirmed with Bergen Applegate, Paul Verlaine: His Absinthe-Tinted Song, Chicago, Ralph Fletcher Seymour, The Alderbrink Press, 1916, page 59.


Authorship

Based on

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Poom Andrew Pipatjarasgit [Guest Editor]