by Jean Richepin (1849 - 1926)
Translation © by Corinne Orde

Sonnet d'automne
Language: French (Français) 
Our translations:  ENG ITA
Ah ! l'automne vient aux amours comme aux années !
On a beau n'y pas croire et ne l'attendre pas,
La navrante saison arrive pas à pas
Et se fait un bouquet de nos heures glanées.

Dans sa robe flottante aux nuances fanées,
Faite de velours rouge et de rouge lampas,
Sa chair de fruits trop mûrs garde encor des appas ;
Mais sa bouche a l'odeur des pâles solanées.

Ses grands yeux sont brouillés comme un ciel orageux.
Orgueilleuse, méchante et folle, elle a pour jeux
De tuer les oiseaux et d'arracher les feuilles.

Ô mauvaise saison, semeuse de remords,
Te voilà donc ! Bientôt, pour peu que tu le veuilles,
Tous mes bois seront nus et tous mes oiseaux morts.

Confirmed with Les caresses, Nouvelle Édition, Paris, G. Charpentier, [no date], pages 147-148.

Note for stanza 1, line 4, word 9: misprinted as "glacées" (frozen) in Lemoine's edition. Vierne's manuscript orchestral score (located in the Bibliothèque nationale, Paris) shows "glanées".


Text 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 (Corinne Orde) , "Autumn Sonnet", copyright © 2007, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ITA Italian (Italiano) (Francesco Campanella) , "Sonetto d' autunno", copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this page: Corinne Orde

This text was added to the website: 2007-11-23
Line count: 14
Word count: 118

Autumn Sonnet
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
Ah! Autumn comes to our loves as it does to our years!
However much we try not to believe or expect it,
The vexing season arrives, step by step,
And becomes a bouquet of our gleaned hours.

In its floating dress of faded hues,
Made of red velvet and red damask,
Its flesh of over-ripe fruit still has lures,
But its mouth has the smell of pale sun-flowers.

Its large eyes are clouded, like a stormy sky.
Selfish, cunning and mad, it plays
At killing birds and ripping off leaves.

O bad season, sower of remorse,
Here you are, then. Soon, whether you like it or not,
All my woods will be bare and all my birds dead.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2007 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.
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This text was added to the website: 2007-11-23
Line count: 14
Word count: 118