Forgotten Ariettes

Song Cycle by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)

View original-language texts alone: Ariettes oubliées

1. C'est l'extase
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
C'est l'extase langoureuse,
C'est la fatigue amoureuse,
C'est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l'étreinte des brises,
C'est vers les ramures grises
Le choeur des petites voix.

O le frêle et frais murmure !
Cela gazouille et susurre,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l'herbe agitée expire...
Tu dirais, sous l'eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.

Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante
C'est la nôtre, n'est-ce pas ?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas ?

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
1. It is the langorous ecstasy
Language: English 
It is the langorous ecstasy,
It is the fatigue after love,
It is all the rustling of the wood,
In the embrace of breezes;
It is near the gray branches:
A chorus of tiny voices.

Oh, what a frail and fresh murmur!
It babbles and whispers,
It resembles the soft noise
That waving grass exhales.
You might say it were, under the bending stream,
The muffled sound of rolling pebbles.

This soul, which laments
And this dormant moan,
It is ours, is it not?
Is it [not] mine[?] -- tell [me] -- and yours,
Whose humble anthem we breathe
On this mild evening, so very quietly?

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © by Emily Ezust

    Emily Ezust permits her translations to be reproduced without prior permission for printed (not online) programs to free-admission concerts only, provided the following credit is given:

    Translation copyright © by Emily Ezust,
    from the LiederNet Archive

    For any other purpose, please write to the e-mail address below to request permission and discuss possible fees.


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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 18
Word count: 104

Translation © by Emily Ezust
2. Il pleure dans mon cœur
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Il pleure dans mon cœur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon cœur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie,
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un cœur qui s'ennuie,
Ô le bruit de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce cœur qui s'écœure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ? ...
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine,
De ne savoir pourquoi...
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon cœur a tant de peine !

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
2. There is weeping in my heart
Language: English 
 There is weeping in my heart
 like the rain falling on the town.
 What is this languor
 that pervades my heart?
 
 Oh the patter of the rain
 on the ground and the roofs!
 For a heart growing weary
 oh the song of the rain!
 
 There is weeping without cause
 in this disheartened heart.
 What!  No betrayal?
 There's no reason for this grief.
 
 Truly the worst pain
 is not knowing why,
 without love or hatred,
 my heart feels so much pain.

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: 16
Word count: 81

Translation © by Peter Low
3. L'ombre des arbres
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
L'ombre des arbres dans la rivière embrumée
  Meurt comme de la fumée,
Tandis qu'en l'air, parmi les ramures réelles,
  Se plaignent les tourterelles.

Combien, ô voyageur, ce paysage blême
  Te mira blême toi-même,
Et que tristes pleuraient dans les hautes feuillées, -
  Tes espérances noyées.

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
3. The shadow of the trees in the misty river
Language: English 
 The shadow of the trees in the misty river
 fades and dies like smoke;
 while above, among the real branches,
 the doves are lamenting.
 
 Oh traveler, how well this pale landscape
 mirrored you pallid self!
 And how sadly, in the high foliage, your hopes were weeping,
 your hopes that are drowned.

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: 8
Word count: 52

Translation © by Peter Low
4. Chevaux de bois
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois,
Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours,
Tournez souvent et tournez toujours,
Tournez, tournez au son des hautbois.

L'enfant tout rouge et la mère blanche,
Le gars en noir et la fille en rose,
L'une à la chose et l'autre à la pose,
Chacun se paie un sou de dimanche.

Tournez, tournez, chevaux de leur cœur,
Tandis qu'autour de tous vos tournois
Clignote l'œil du filou sournois,
Tournez au son du piston vainqueur !

C'est étonnant comme ça vous soûle
D'aller ainsi dans ce cirque bête
Rien dans le ventre et mal dans la tête,
Du mal en masse et du bien en foule.

 ... 

Tournez, dadas, sans qu'il soit besoin
D'user jamais de nuls éperons
Pour commander à vos galops ronds
Tournez, tournez, sans espoir de foin.

Et dépêchez, chevaux de leur âme
Déjà voici que sonne à la soupe
La nuit qui tombe et chasse la troupe
De gais buveurs que leur soif affame.

Tournez, tournez ! Le ciel en velours
D'astres en or se vêt lentement.
L'église tinte un glas tristement.
Tournez au son joyeux des tambours !

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See also the very similar "Chevaux de bois" in Romances sans paroles.

by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
4. Turn, turn, good horses of wood
Language: English 
Turn, turn, good horses of wood,
turn a hundred turns, turn a thousand turns,
turn often and turn always,
turn, turn to the sound of the oboes.

The red-faced child and pale mother,
the boy in black and the girl in pink,
the one pursuing and the other posing,
each getting a penny's worth of Sunday fun.

Turn, turn, horses of their hearts,
while all around your turning
squints the sly pickpocket's eye --
turn to the sound of the victorious cornet.

It is astonishing how it intoxicates you
to go around this way in a stupid circle,
[plenty]1 in the tummy and aching in the head,
very sick and having lots of fun.

[ ... ]

Turn, turn! The velvet sky
is slowly clothed with golden stars.
The church bell tolls sadly.
Turn, to the happy sound of drums.

[ ... ]

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by John Glenn Paton, (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: 

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View original text (without footnotes)
1 Debussy: "nothing"


This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 28
Word count: 187

Translation © by John Glenn Paton
5. Green
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon cœur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux.

J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue, à vos pieds reposée,
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers ;
Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
5. Green
Language: English 
Here are some fruit, some flowers, some leaves and some branches,
And then here is my heart, which beats only for you.
Do not rip it up with your two white hands,
And may the humble present be sweet in your beautiful eyes!

I arrive all coverered in dew,
Which the wind of morning comes to freeze on my forehead.
Suffer my fatigue as I repose at your feet,
Dreaming of dear instants that will refresh me.

On your young breast allow my head to rest,
Still ringing with your last kisses;
Let it calm itself after the pleasant tempest,
And let me sleep a little, since you are resting.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © by Emily Ezust

    Emily Ezust permits her translations to be reproduced without prior permission for printed (not online) programs to free-admission concerts only, provided the following credit is given:

    Translation copyright © by Emily Ezust,
    from the LiederNet Archive

    For any other purpose, please write to the e-mail address below to request permission and discuss possible fees.


Based on:

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Translations of titles
"Green" = "Green"
"Voici des fruits" = "Here are some fruit"



This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 12
Word count: 110

Translation © by Emily Ezust
6. Spleen
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Les roses étaient toutes rouges
Et les lierres étaient tout noirs.

Chère, pour peu que tu te bouges
Renaissent tous mes désespoirs.

Le ciel était trop bleu, trop tendre,
La mer trop verte et l'air trop doux.

Je crains toujours, -- ce qu'est d'attendre
Quelque fuite atroce de vous.

Du houx à la feuille vernie
Et du luisant buis je suis las,

Et de la campagne infinie
Et de tout, fors de vous, hélas !

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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
6. Spleen
Language: English 
The roses were all red
And the ivy was all black.

Dear, it only needs one move from you
For all my despairs to reawaken.

The sky was too blue, too tender,
The sea too green and the air too mild.

I fear all the time, ever waiting,
Some terrible flight from you.

Of the holly with its varnished leaf
And of the shining boxwood I am weary

And of the never-ending countryside,
And of everything, except you. Alas!

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: 2008-01-21
Line count: 12
Word count: 79

Translation © by Corinne Orde