English translations of Quatre poèmes pour voix, alto et piano, opus 5

by Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler (1861 - 1935)

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1. La cloche fêlée
 (Sung text)
by Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler (1861 - 1935), "La cloche fêlée", op. 5 (Quatre poèmes pour voix, alto et piano) no. 1 (1893), published 1904 [ voice, viola, and piano ], New York, Schirmer
Language: French (Français) 
Il est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d'hiver, 
D'écouter près du feu qui palpite et qui fume 
Les souvenirs lointains lentement s'élever
Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.

Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux 
Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante, 
Jette fidèlement son cri religieux, 
Ainsi qu'un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente !

Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu'en ses ennuis 
Elle veut de ses chants peupler l'air froid des nuits, 
Il arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie

Semble le râle épais d'un blessé qu'on oublie 
Au bord d'un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts, 
Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d'immenses efforts.

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Confirmed with Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal, Paris: Poulet-Malassis et de Broise, 1857, in Spleen et Idéal, pages 136-137.

First published 1851-04-09 in Le Messager de l'Assemblée under the title "Le Spleen"; also appears published June 1855 in Revue des Deux Mondes under the title "La Cloche". The title "La Cloche fêlée" is used in all editions of Les Fleurs du mal. This was number 58 in the 1857 edition of Les Fleurs du mal but 74 or 76 in subsequent editions.


by Charles Baudelaire (1821 - 1867)
1. The cracked bell
Language: English 
It is bitter and sweet, during winter nights,
To listen, by the fire that flickers and smokes,
To long-distant memories slowly rising
At the sound of the bells chiming in the mist.

Happy is that bell with the vigorous throat,
Which, in spite of its age, is alert and healthy,
And faithfully sends forth its religious cry,
Like some old soldier on watch in his tent.

As for me, my soul is cracked; and when in its troubles
It wants to fill the cold night air with its songs,
It often happens that its weakened voice

Seems like the thick gasp of a wounded man, forgotten
Beside a lake of blood, underneath a large heap of dead,
And who dies, without moving, with immense effort.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2007 by Corinne Orde, (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.
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This text was added to the website: 2007-11-20
Line count: 14
Word count: 125

Translation © by Corinne Orde
2. Dansons la gigue!
 (Sung text)
by Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler (1861 - 1935), "Dansons la gigue!", op. 5 (Quatre poèmes pour voix, alto et piano) no. 2 (1893), published 1904 [ voice, viola, and piano ], New York, Schirmer
Language: French (Français) 
   Dansons la gigue!

 J'aimais surtout ses jolis yeux
 Plus clairs que l'étoile des cieux,
 J'aimais ses yeux malicieux.

   Dansons la gigue!

 Elle avait des façons vraiment
 De désoler un pauvre amant,
 Que c'en était vraiment charmant!

   Dansons la gigue!

 Mais je trouve encore meilleur
 Le baiser de sa bouche en fleur
 Depuis qu'elle est morte à mon coeur.

   Dansons la gigue!

 Je me souviens, je me souviens
 Des heures et des entretiens,
 Et c'est le meilleur de mes biens.

   Dansons la gigue!

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
2.
Language: English 
Let’s dance the jig!

I loved above all her comely eyes,
Clearer than the star of the skies,
I loved her malicious eyes.

Let’s dance the jig!

She truly had fashions
To ravage a poor lover,
Which was truly charming!

Let’s dance the jig!

But I find still better
The kiss from her mouth in flower
Since she is dead to my heart.

Let’s dance the jig!

I remember, I remember
Hours and discussions,
And this is the best of my possessions.

Let’s dance the jig!

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2020 by Garrett Medlock, (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.
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Translations of title(s):
"Streets" = "Streets"
"Dansons la gigue" = "Let's dance the jig"
"J'aimais surtout" = "I loved above all"
"Je me souviens" = "I remember"
"Gigue" = "Jig"



This text was added to the website: 2020-03-05
Line count: 17
Word count: 86

Translation © by Garrett Medlock
3. Le son du cor s'afflige vers les bois
 (Sung text)
by Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler (1861 - 1935), "Le son du cor s'afflige vers les bois", op. 5 (Quatre poèmes pour voix, alto et piano) no. 3 (1893), published 1904 [ voice, viola, and piano ], New York, Schirmer
Language: French (Français) 
Le son du cor s'afflige vers les bois,
D'une douleur on veut croire orpheline
Qui vient mourir au bas de la colline,
Parmi la bise errant en courts abois.

L'âme du loup pleure dans cette voix,
Qui monte avec le soleil, qui décline
D'une agonie on veut croire câline,
Et qui ravit et qui navre à la fois.

Pour faire mieux cette plainte assoupie,
La neige tombe à longs traits de charpie
A travers le couchant sanguinolent,

Et l'air a l'air d'être un soupir d'automne,
Tant il fait doux par ce soir monotone,
Où se dorlote un paysage lent.

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
3. The sound of the horn is wailing near the woods
Language: English 
The sound of the horn is wailing near the woods
with a sort of orphan-like grief
which dies away at the foot of the hill
where the north wind desperately roams.

The soul of the wolf is weeping in that voice
which rises with the sun that sinks
with an agony that seems somehow soothing
and gives simultaneous delight and distress.

To enhance this drowsy lament
the snow is falling as long strips of linen
across the blood-red sunset,
and the air seems to be an autumn sigh,

so gentle is this monotonous evening
in which a slow landscape coddles itself.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by Peter Low, (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.
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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 14
Word count: 101

Translation © by Peter Low
4. Sérénade
 (Sung text)
by Charles Martin Tornov Loeffler (1861 - 1935), "Sérénade", op. 5 (Quatre poèmes pour voix, alto et piano) no. 4 (1893), published 1904 [ voice, piano, and viola ], New York, Schirmer
Language: French (Français) 
Comme la voix d'un mort qui chanterait
	Du fond de sa fosse,
Maîtresse, entends monter vers ton retrait
	Ma voix aigre et fausse.

Ouvre ton âme et ton oreille au son
	De la mandoline :
Pour toi j'ai fait, pour toi, cette chanson
	Cruelle et câline.

Je chanterai tes yeux d'or et d'onyx
	Purs de toutes ombres,
Puis le Léthé de ton sein, puis le Styx
	De tes cheveux sombres.

Comme la voix d'un mort qui chanterait
	Du fond de sa fosse,
Maîtresse, entends monter vers ton retrait
	Ma voix aigre et fausse.

Puis je louerai beaucoup, comme il convient,
	Cette chair bénie
Dont le parfum opulent me revient
	Les nuits d'insomnie.

Et pour finir, je dirai le baiser
	De ta lèvre rouge,
Et ta douceur à me martyriser,
	— Mon Ange ! — ma Gouge !

Ouvre ton âme et ton oreille au son
	De ma mandoline :
Pour toi j'ai fait, pour toi, cette chanson
	Cruelle et câline.

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
4. Serenade
Language: English 
Like the voice of a dead body that might
Sing from the depth of its grave,
Mistress, listen to my voice, harsh and out of tune,
Rising up to your refuge.

Open your soul and your ear to the sound
Of the mandolin:
For you, for you, have I made this song,
Cruel and wheedling.

I will sing of your gold and onyx eyes,
Pure of all shadows,
Then of the Lethe of your breast, then the Styx
Of your dark hair.

Like the voice of a dead body that might
Sing from the depth of its grave,
Mistress, listen to my voice, harsh and out of tune,
Rising up to your refuge.

Then I shall laud highly, as necessary,
This blessed body
Whose opulent perfume comes back to me
On sleepless nights.

And to finish, I shall sing of the kiss
Of your red lips,
And your sweetness in making a martyr of me,
My angel, my gouge!

Open your soul and your ear to the sound
Of the mandolin:
For you, for you, have I made this song,
Cruel and wheedling.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2008 by Corinne Orde, (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: 

Based on:

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This text was added to the website: 2008-01-16
Line count: 28
Word count: 183

Translation © by Corinne Orde