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Quand les blonds épis mûrs ondoyant dans la plaine S'inclinent accablés sous le grand ciel dormant Et semblent annoncer qu'elle n'est plus lointaine L'heure où ruisselleront les flots d'or du froment, Comme des condamnés, offrant leur tête pleine De l'espoir des hivers, un seul enchantement Les berce dans l'oubli de la moisson prochaine. Le blé qui va mourir écoute vaguement La cigale entonnant ses notes frémissantes. Voici les moissonneurs! Leurs faucilles grinçantes Abattant les épis découronnent l'été Et fidèle au destin des blés, triste, muette, La cigale s'endort, comme meurt un poète, Lasse d'avoir vécu, fière d'avoir chanté!
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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, and transliterations (if applicable):
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 14
Word count: 98
When the ripe blonde stalks wave on the plain, bending heavily under the wide sleeping sky, and seem to say that the time is near when the golden streams of wheat will flow, like condemned prisoners, offering their heads full of winter's hope, rocked in enchantment, forgetful of the coming harvest. The wheat that is to die listens vaguely to the cicada's quavering song. Here come the reapers! Their screeching scythes cut down the stalks and uncrown summer. Faithfully sharing the fate of the wheat, sad, mute, the cicada falls asleep as a poet will die, tired of living but proud of having sung!
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Line count: 14
Word count: 104
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