by Pierre-Félix Louis (1870 - 1925), as Pierre Louÿs
Translation © by Peter Low

La flûte de Pan
Language: French (Français) 
Available translation(s): ENG GER GER ITA
Pour le jour des Hyacinthies,
il m'a donné une syrinx faite
de roseaux bien taillés,
unis avec la blanche cire
qui est douce à mes lèvres comme le miel.

Il m'apprend à jouer, assise sur ses genoux ;
mais je suis un peu tremblante.
il en joue après moi, 
si doucement que je l'entends à peine.

Nous n'avons rien à nous dire,
tant nous sommes près l'un de l'autre;
mais nos chansons veulent se répondre,
et tour à tour nos bouches
s'unissent sur la flûte.

Il est tard, 
voici le chant des grenouilles vertes
qui commence avec la nuit.
Ma mère ne croira jamais
que je suis restée si longtemps
à chercher ma ceinture perdue.

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (Peter Low) , "The pan-pipes", copyright © 2000, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • GER German (Deutsch) (Nele Gramß) , "Pans Flöte", copyright ©, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , "Die Panflöte", copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ITA Italian (Italiano) (Ferdinando Albeggiani) , "Il flauto di Pan", copyright © 2005, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 115

The pan‑pipes
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
 For the festival of Hyacinthus
 he gave me a syrinx, a set of pipes made
 from well-cut reeds joined
 with the white wax
 that is sweet to my lips like honey.
 
 He is teaching me to play, as I sit on his knees;
 but I tremble a little.
 He plays it after me, so softly
 that I can scarcely hear it.
 
 We are so close that we have
 nothing to say to one another;
 but our songs want to converse,
 and our mouths are joined
 as they take turns on the pipes.
 
 It is late:
 here comes the chant of the green frogs,
 which begins at dusk.
 My mother will never believe
 I spent so long 
 searching for my lost waistband. 

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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Based on

 

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 122