by
Franz Toussaint (1879 - 1955)
Son sourire
Language: French (Français)
Quand je lui demande grâce, elle se contente de sourire,
les yeux baissés.
Que puis-je attendre d'un amour si redoutable ?
Elle sait la puissance de son sourire.
Comment lui cacher que je l'aime ?
Tu es mon univers, avec des collines et des jardins,
avec des sources et des moissons.
Je voudrais avoir mille bouches.
Je voudrais n'avoir jamais besoin de sommeil.
Pourtant, ne suis-je pas le voyageur qui s'endort,
chaque soir, sous des ombrages parfumés ?
Tu es mon univers, avec des collines et des jardins,
avec des sources et des moissons.
Lorsque ton haleine passe sur mon visage,
je pense aux brises du Hedjâz,
qui ont effeuillé d'innombrables roses.
Mes faucons maigrissent sur leurs perchoirs,
mes chevaux perdent l'habitude du mors,
l'éclat de mes armes se ternit...
Qu'importe ! puisque l'éclat de tes joues est pareil
au cœur sanglant des grenades,
puisque ton ventre est plus souple que le dos de mes coursiers,
puisque tes baisers sont des faucons toujours inassouvis !
Etendu sur les douces collines de ton corps,
je bois à la source de ta bouche en étreignant mes moissons.
Confirmed with Franz Toussaint, Le jardin des caresses, Paris: L'édition d'Art H. Piazza, 1906, pages 7-8.
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):
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust
[Administrator] , Grant Hicks
[Guest Editor] , Joost van der Linden
[Guest Editor] This text was added to the website: 2023-05-23
Line count: 25
Word count: 180
Her Smile
Language: English  after the French (Français)
When I beg her for mercy, she contents herself with a smile,
her eyes lowered.
What can I expect of a love so formidable?
She knows the power of her smile.
How can I hide from her that I love her?
You are my world, with hills and gardens,
with springs and harvests.
I wish I had a thousand mouths.
I wish I never needed to sleep.
Yet am I not the traveler who falls asleep,
each night, beneath perfumed shadows?
You are my world, with hills and gardens,
with springs and harvests.
When your breath passes over my face,
I think of the breezes of Hedjâz,
which have plucked the petals from countless roses.
My falcons grow lean on their perches,
my horses grow unaccustomed to the bit,
the glow of my weapons tarnishes...
No matter! for the glow of your cheeks is like
the bloody heart of a pomegranate,
for your stomach is more supple than the backs of my coursers,
for your kisses are falcons that are never sated!
Stretched out on the gentle hills of your body,
I drink from the spring of your mouth while embracing my harvest.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2026 by Grant Hicks, (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: 2026-04-16
Line count: 25
Word count: 193