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by Paul Verlaine (1844 - 1896)
Translation by Bergen Weeks Applegate (b. 1865)

Souvenir, souvenir, que me veux‑tu ?...
Language: French (Français) 
Available translation(s): ENG HUN
Souvenir, souvenir, que me veux-tu ? L'automne
Faisait voler la grive à travers l'air atone,
Et le soleil dardait un rayon monotone
Sur le bois jaunissant où la bise détone

Nous étions seul à seule et marchions en rêvant,
Elle et moi, les cheveux et la pensée au vent.
Soudain, tournant vers moi son regard émouvant :
« Quel fut ton plus beau jour? » fit sa voix d'or vivant,

Sa voix douce et sonore, au frais timbre angélique.
Un sourire discret lui donna la réplique,
Et je baisai sa main blanche, dévotement.

— Ah ! les premières fleurs, qu'elles sont parfumées !
Et qu'il bruit avec un murmure charmant
Le premier oui qui sort de lèvres bien-aimées !

About the headline (FAQ)

Confirmed with Paul Verlaine, Poëmes saturniens, Paris: Alphonse Lemerre, 1866, in Melancholia, pages 15-16.


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 (Laura L. Nagle) , "Nevermore", copyright © 2007, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ENG English (Bergen Weeks Applegate) , "Nevermore", appears in Poems Saturnine, in 1. Melancholia, no. 2
  • HUN Hungarian (Magyar) (Tamás Rédey) , "Nevermore", copyright © 2015, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • POL Polish (Polski) (Bronisława Ostrowska) , "Never more", Kraków, J. Mortkowicz, first published 1911


Research team for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Poom Andrew Pipatjarasgit [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 14
Word count: 119

Nevermore
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
Remembrance, remembrance, what wouldst thou? The autumn
Thrust on languid airs is sadly blown,
And the sun's wan rays monotonously thrown
On yellowing fields where weary winds make moan.

She and I were alone, walking and dreaming,
Our hair and our thoughts in the wind over-bold.
Suddenly she turned toward me, her soft eyes gleaming,
"Which was your happiest day?" said her voice of pure gold

With its timbre angelic, sonorous and sweet.
And the smile that I gave for reply was discreet
As the kiss that I gave her white hand in devotion.

— Ah! The first flowers and their perfume one sips!
And the low sound with its charming emotion —
The first "yes" that comes from well-beloved lips.

Confirmed with Bergen Applegate, Paul Verlaine: His Absinthe-Tinted Song, Chicago, Ralph Fletcher Seymour, The Alderbrink Press, 1916, page 45.


Authorship:

Based on:

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

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Poom Andrew Pipatjarasgit [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2022-03-01
Line count: 14
Word count: 121