by Jean Richepin (1849 - 1926)
Translation © by Francesco Campanella

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

Sonetto d' autunno
Language: Italian (Italiano)  after the French (Français) 
Ah! l'autunno viene agli amori ed anche agli anni!
Si ha un bel non crederci e non attenderlo,
La straziante stagione giunge passo dopo passo
E fa un mazzo delle nostre ghiacciate ore.

Nella sua veste fluttuante di sfumature appassite,
Fatta di velluto rosso e di seta rossa.
La sua carne, frutti troppo maturi, conserva ancora delle grazie;
Ma la sua bocca ha l'odore di pallide solanacee.

I suoi grandi occhi sono annebbiati come un cielo tempestoso.
Orgoglioso, malvagio e folle, si diletta
Ad uccidere uccelli e a far cadere le foglie.

O cattiva stagione, seminatrice di rimorsi,
Eccoti dunque! Presto, per quanto poco tu lo possa desiderare,
Tutti i miei boschi saranno nudi e tutti i miei uccelli morti.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to Italian (Italiano) copyright © 2013 by Francesco Campanella, (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: 2013-09-02
Line count: 14
Word count: 120