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Lyric Prose
Song Cycle by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
View original-language texts alone: Proses Lyriques
1. De rêve
Language: French (Français)
La nuit a des douceurs de femme, Et les vieux arbres, sous la lune d'or, Songent! A Celle qui vient de passer, La tête emperlée, Maintenant navrée, à jamais navrée, Ils n'ont pas su lui faire signe... Toutes! Elles ont passé: Les Frêles, les Folles, Semant leur rire au gazon grêle, Aux brises frôleuses la caresse charmeuse des hanches fleurissantes. Hélas! de tout ceci, plus rien qu'un blanc frisson... Les vieux arbres sous la lune d'or Pleurent leurs belles feuilles d'or! Nul ne leur dédiera Plus la fierté des casques d'or, Maintenant ternis, à jamais ternis: Les chevaliers sont morts Sur le chemin du Grâal! La nuit a des douceurs de femme, Des mains semblent frôler les âmes, Mains si folles, si frêles, Au temps où les épées chantaient pour Elles! D'étranges soupirs s'élèvent sous les arbres: Mon âme c'est du rêve ancien qui t'étreint!
by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
1. Dreams
Language: English
The night is as sweet as a woman, and the old trees dream under the golden moon. They didn't know how to call to the one who just passed, her head crowned with pearls, now and forever distraught. All have passed now, the frail, the foolish, sowing their laughter in the sparse grass, breezes brushing the flowering hips' charming caress. Alas! Only a white shiver remains of all this. The old trees weep their gilded leaves under the golden moon. No more will anyone dedicate to them proud golden helms. Now and forever tarnished, the knights are dead on the Grail quest. The night is sweet as a woman. Hands seem to stroke the souls, such foolish, frail hands, in the days when swords sang for them! Strange sighs rise under the trees. My soul they are from an old dream that holds you.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2003 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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the general single-text view
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 144
Translation © by Faith J. Cormier
2. De grève
Language: French (Français)
Sur la mer les crépuscules tombent, Soie blanche effilée. Les vagues comme de petites folles, Jasent, petites filles sortant de l'école, Parmi les froufrous de leur robe, Soie verte irisée! Les nuages, graves voyageurs, Se concertent sur le prochain orage, Et c'est un fond vraiment trop grave A cette anglaise aquarelle. Les vagues, les petites vagues, Ne savent plus où se mettre, Car voici la méchante averse, Froufrous de jupes envolées, Soie verte affolée. Mais la lune, compatissante à tous, Vient apaiser ce gris conflit, Et caresse lentement ses petites amies, Qui s'offrent, comme lèvres aimantes, A ce tiède et blanc baiser. Puis, plus rien... Plus que les cloches attardées des flottantes églises, Angelus des vagues, Soie blanche apaisée!
by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
2. On the Strand
Language: English
Dusk falls like tattered white silk on the sea. The waves chatter like silly little girls let out of school in their lustrous frilly green silk dresses. The clouds, solemn travelers, band together to make the next storm. The background is really too dark for this English watercolour. The little waves don't know where to go anymore, because here is the wicked shower blowing their frilly skirts away and frightening the green silk. But the all-compassionate moon comes to calm the gray quarrel. She slowly caresses her little friends, and they offer themselves, like loving lips, to her warm white kiss. Nothing more... nothing but the delayed bells of floating churches, Angelus of the waves, pacified white silk.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2003 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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the general single-text view
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 118
Translation © by Faith J. Cormier
3. De fleurs
Language: French (Français)
Dans l'ennui si désolément vert De la serre de douleur, Les fleurs enlacent mon coeur De leurs tiges méchantes. Ah! quand reviendront autour de ma tête Les chères mains si tendrement désenlaceuses? Les grands Iris violets Violèrent méchamment tes yeux, En semblant les refléter, - Eux, qui furent l'eau du songe Où plongèrent mes rêves si doucement, Enclos en leur couleur; Et les lys, blancs jets d'eau de pistils embaumés, Ont perdu leur grâce blanche, Et ne sont plus que pauvres malades sans soleil! - Soleil! ami des fleurs mauvaises, Tueur de rêves: Tueur d'illusions, Ce pain béni des âmes misérables! Venez! Venez! Les mains salvatrices! Brisez les vitres de mensonge, Brisez les vitres de maléfice, Mon âme meurt de trop de soleil! Mirages! Plus ne refleurira la joie de mes yeux, Et mes mains sont lasses de prier, Mes yeux sont las de pleurer! Eternellement ce bruit fou Des pétales noirs de l'ennui, Tombant goutte à goutte sur ma tête, Dans le vert de la serre de douleur!
by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
3. Flowers
Language: English
In the desolate green boredom of pain's hothouse, flowers surround my heart with their nasty stems. When will the dear hands return to delicately untangle them from round my head? The tall purple Iris cruelly violated your eyes by seeming to reflect them. They were the pools of reverie into which my dreams softly dove, absorbed by their colour. And the lilies, white jets of water with perfumed pistils, have lost their white grace and are but poor invalids who do not know the sun. Sun! Friend of evil flowers, dream-killer, illusion-killer, holy bread of miserable souls! Come! Come! Saving hands! Smash the windows of lies, smash the windows of evil spells, my soul is dying from too much sun! Mirages! Joy will never flower again in my eyes and my hands are tired of praying, my eyes tired of crying! In an eternal crazed noise, the black petals of boredom drip constantly on my head in pain's green hothouse!
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2003 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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the general single-text view
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 13
Word count: 160
Translation © by Faith J. Cormier
4. De soir
Language: French (Français)
Dimanche sur les villes, Dimanche dans les coeurs! Dimanche chez let petites filles, Chantant d'une voix informée, Des rondes obstinées, Ou de bonnes tours N'en ont plus que pour quelques jours! Dimanche, les gares sont folles! Tout le monde appareille Pour des banlieues d'aventure, En se disant adieu Avec des gestes éperdus! Dimanche les trains vont vite, Dévorés par d'insatiables tunnels; Et les bons signaux des routes Echangent d'un oeil unique, Des impressions toutes mécaniques. Dimanche, dans le bleu de mes rêves, Où mes pensées tristes De feux d'artifices manqués Ne veulent plus quitter Le deuil de vieux Dimanches trépassés. Et la nuit, à pas de velours, Vient endormir le beau ciel fatigué, Et c'est Dimanche dans les avenues d'étoiles; La Vierge or sur argent Laisse tomber les fleurs de sommeil! Vite, les petits anges, Dépassez les hirondelles Afin de vous coucher Forts d'absolution! Prenez pitié des villes, Prenez pitié des coeurs, Vous, la Vierge or sur argent!
by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
4. Evening
Language: English
Sunday on the city, Sunday in our hearts! Sunday among the little girls singing with untrained voices their stubborn rounds where good turns only last a few days! Sunday, the stations are mad! Everyone heads off for the suburbs of adventure, waving a frenzied farewell! Sunday trains are fast, devoured by insatiable tunnels, and the good signal lights with their single eyes exchange mechanical impressions. Sunday, in the blue of my dreams where my sad thoughts of missed fireworks do not want to leave off mourning for deceased Sundays. The night, with velvet steps, comes to lull the lovely, tired sky to sleep, and it's Sunday among the avenues of stars. The Virgin, gold on silver, scatters the flowers of sleep. Swiftly, little angels, pass the swallows and go to bed, strong in your absolution! Take pity on the cities, take pity on our hearts, oh Virgin, gold on silver.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2003 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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)
Go to the general single-text view
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 12
Word count: 150
Translation © by Faith J. Cormier