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Alas when thou went near I wish'd thee far But now thy distance is a jangling pain That all the harmony of life must mar. All day I murmur, "Wilt thou come again?" Unless thou wilt return, I sing no more; A hawk o'er towers the songbird of my heart; Leagues have I drifted on toward the shore of mute remorse Since we were driven apart For though to sing is more to me than breath, If I might only sing one worthy song Who sings beneath the basilisk eyes of death? Or, worse than death, the hovering wing of wrong? They have o'er me like a brooding mist That beams the mountains in the morning light, And blemishes the austered amethyst Of pleasure's grapes with grey mysterious blight. Alas when thou are near I wish'd thee far But now thy distance is a jangling pain That all the harmony of life must mar; All day I murmur, "Wilt thou come again?"
Text Authorship:
- by Francis Money-Coutts, 5th Baron Latymer (1852 - 1923) [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 Isaac Albéniz (1860 - 1909), "Separated" [voice and piano], from Six songs, no. 2. [text verified 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Jean-Pierre Granger) , title 1: "Séparés", copyright © 2009, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: Jean-Pierre Granger
This text was added to the website: 2009-11-19
Line count: 20
Word count: 162
Hélas, lorsque tu t'approchas, je te voulus loin, Mais maintenant, cette distance m'est une douleur grinçante Qui doit gâcher toute l'harmonie de la vie. Je murmure toute la journée : » Reviendras-tu ? « A moins que tu ne reviennes, je ne chanterai plus ; Un faucon domine l'oiseau chanteur de mon âme ; Que de lieues ai-je dérivé vers le rivage des remords silencieux. Depuis que nous fûmes séparés, Puisque pour moi chanter est plus que respirer, Si je ne devais chanter qu'une seule chanson digne Qui peut échapper au regard foudroyant du basilic ? Ou pire que la mort, le battement des ailes de l'erreur ? Ils répendent sur moi comme une brume maussade Qui traverse les montagnes dans la lumière du matin, Et fait pâlir la couleur d'améthyste austère Des raisins du plaisir avec une plaie d'un gris mystérieux. Hélas, lorsque tu t'approchas, je te voulus loin, Mais maintenant, cette distance m'est une douleur grinçante Qui doit gâcher toute l'harmonie de la vie. Je murmure toute la journée : » Reviendras-tu ? «
Text Authorship:
- Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2009 by Jean-Pierre Granger.
This author's work falls under the CC BY-SA 2.0 license.
Jean-Pierre Granger. We have no current contact information for the copyright-holder.
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Based on:
- a text in English by Francis Money-Coutts, 5th Baron Latymer (1852 - 1923)
This text was added to the website: 2009-11-19
Line count: 20
Word count: 168