Attention! Some of this material is not in the public domain.
It is illegal to copy and distribute our copyright-protected material without permission. It is also illegal to reprint copyright texts or translations without the name of the author or translator.
To inquire about permissions and rates, contact Emily Ezust at licenses@email.lieder.example.net
If you wish to reprint translations, please make sure you include the names of the translators in your email. They are below each translation.
Note: You must use the copyright symbol © when you reprint copyright-protected material.
Sleepless Nights
Song Cycle by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
View original-language texts alone: Nuits blanches
Nuit sans fin. Tristesse morne des heures où l'on attend ! Cœur rompu. Fièvre du sang rythmant les douces syllabes de son nom. Qu'elle vienne, la trop désirée, Qu'elle vienne, la trop aimée, Et m'entoure de son parfum de jeune fleur ! Que mes lèvres mordent le fruit de sa bouche Jusqu'à retenir son âme entre mes lèvres ! Ai-je donc pleuré en vain, Ai-je donc crié en vain Vers tout cela qui me fuit ? Tristesse morne. Nuit sans fin !
Authorship:
- by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the single-text view
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (T. P. (Peter) Perrin) , "Endless night", copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Endless night. Desolate gloom of the waiting hours. Shattered heart, fevered blood drumming her name's lovely syllables. Let her come, the too-much-wanted; let her come, the too-much-loved, and wrap me in her odor of early blooms. May my lips bite the fruit of her mouth till the taste of her soul is theirs. Have I shed tears in vain, have I called out in vain, to all that deserts me? Desolate gloom, endless night.
Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2011 by T. P. (Peter) Perrin, (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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the single-text view
This text was added to the website: 2011-10-07
Line count: 14
Word count: 74
Lorsqu'elle est entrée, il m'a semblé Que le mensonge traînait aux plis de sa jupe ; La lueur de ses grands yeux mentait, Et dans la musique de sa voix, Quelque chose d'étranger vibrait. C'étaient les doux mots que je connais si bien, Mais ils me faisaient mal et entraient en moi doulouresement. Qui donc a usé son regard ? Qui donc a fané la rougeur de sa bouche ? D'où vient cette lassitude heureuse Qui semble avoir brisé son corps Comme une fleur trop aimée du soleil ? Oh ! torturer une à une les veines de son cher corps ! L'anéantir et le consumer, ensevelir sa chair Dans ma chair, avec la joie amère De l'impossible pardon ! Tout à l'heure ses mains plus délicates que des fleurs Se poseront sur mes yeux et tisseront le voile de l'oubli... Alors mon sang rebattra, les plaies rouges De mon cœur saigneront, et le sang montera, Noyant son mensonge, Et toute ma peine.
Authorship:
- by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the single-text view
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (T. P. (Peter) Perrin) , "When she first appeared", copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
When she first appeared I felt deceit was caught in the folds of her skirt; her large eyes glowed with falsehood; and in her voice's music sounded something remote, inhuman. None but sweet words I know so well, but which, when I absorb them, are harsh and wounding. What then has dulled her glance? What then has faded her mouth's redness? What is the source of the cherished weariness that seems to have burned out her body like a flower too much loved by the sun? Oh, to torment one by one the channels of her loved body! To wreck it, devour it, to bury her flesh in my flesh, know the bitter joy of no chance of forgiveness. Soon her hands, more delicate than flowers, will cover my eyes and weave oblivion's veil . . . Then my blood will rekindle, my heart's red wounds will bleed, and my blood rise up to drown her deceit and all my sorrow.
Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2011 by T. P. (Peter) Perrin, (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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the single-text view
This text was added to the website: 2011-10-07
Line count: 22
Word count: 161