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Ô mes morts tristement nombreux Qui me faites un dôme ombreux De paix, de prière et d'exemple, Comme autrefois le Dieu vivant Daigna vouloir qu'un humble enfant Se sanctifiât dans le temple. Ô mes morts penchés sur mon cœur. Pitoyables à sa langueur, Père, mère, âmes angéliques, Et toi qui fus mieux qu'une sœur, Et toi, jeune homme de douceur Pour qui ces vers mélancoliques, Et vous tous, la meilleure part De mon âme, dont le départ Flétrit mon heure la meilleure. Ami que votre heure faucha, Ô mes morts, voyez que déjà Il se fait temps qu'aussi je meure. Car plus rien sur terre qu'exil ! El pourquoi Dieu retire-t-il Le pain lui-même de ma bouche, Sinon pour me rejoindre à vous Dans son sein redoutable et doux, Loin de ce monde âpre et farouche. Aplanissez-moi le chemin, Venez me prendre par la main, Soyez mes guides dans la gloire. Ou bien plutôt, -- Seigneur vengeur ! -- Priez pour un pauvre pêcheur Indigne encor du Purgatoire.
About the headline (FAQ)
Authorship
- by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896), no title, appears in Amour, in Lucien Létinois, no. 25, first published 1888 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Charles Bordes (1863 - 1909), "Ô mes morts tristement nombreux", 1903, published 1914 [voice and orchestra or piano], Éd. Rouart, Lerolle & Cie [text verified 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Laura L. Nagle) , title 1: "O my too very many dead", copyright © 2007, (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: 30
Word count: 166
O my too very many dead, Who make me a shady dome Of peace, prayer, and example, Just as once the living God Deigned to see that a humble child Be blessed in his temple; O my dead, pressed against my heart, Pitiable in its languor: Father, mother, angelic souls, And you who were better than a sister, And you, gentle young man For whom these melancholy lines are written; And all of you, the best part Of my soul, whose departure Darkened my finest hour, Friends cut down in your prime, O my dead, see that already It is time for me, too, to die. For I've nothing more on earth than exile! And why should God take The very bread from my lips, If not to bring me back to you In His soft and fearsome bosom, Far from this harsh and savage world. Smooth the way for me, Come and take me by the hand, Be my guides in glory, Or rather -- vengeful Lord! -- Pray for a poor sinner Still unworthy of purgatory.
Authorship
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2007 by Laura L. Nagle, (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:
- a text in French (Français) by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896), no title, appears in Amour, in Lucien Létinois, no. 25, first published 1888
This text was added to the website: 2007-08-08
Line count: 30
Word count: 176