Les Angélus words are by Grégoire Le Roy (1862-1941).
Cloches chrétiennes pour les matines,
Sonnant au coeur d’espérer encore!
Angelus angelisés d’aurore!
Las! Où sont vos prières câlines?
Vous étiez de si douce folies!
Et chanterelles d’amours prochaines!
Aujourd’hui souveraine est ma peine.
Et toutes matines abolies.
Je ne vis plus que d’ombre et de soir;
Les las angelus pleurent la mort,
Et là, dans mon coeur résigné, dort
La seule veuve de tout espoir.
Christian matin bells ring out,
Telling the heart to continue to hope!
Angelus bells made angelic with dawn!
Alas, where are your soothing prayers?
You were such a sweet madness!
Harbingers of future loves!
Today, my sorrow reigns supreme
And all matin bells have been abolished.
My whole life is but shadow and evening;
The weary angelus bewails death,
And there, in my resigned heart, sleeps
The only widow of any hope.
Poetry for Le jet k’eau/the fountain is by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Tes beaux yeux sont las, pauvre amante!
Reste longtemps, sans les rouvrir,
Dans cette pose nonchalante
Où t’a surprise le plaisir.
Dans la cour le jet d’eau qui jase
Et ne se tait ni nuit ni jour,
Entretient doucement l’extase
Où ce soir m’a plongé l’amour.
La gerbe d’eau qui berce
Ses mille fleurs,
Que la lune traverse
De ses pâleurs,
Tombe comme une averse
De larges pleurs.
Ainsi ton âme qu’incendie
L’éclair brûlant des voluptés
S’élance, rapide et hardie,
Vers les vastes cieux enchantés.
Puis, elle s’épanche, mourante,
En un flot de triste langueur,
Qui par une invisible pente
Descend jusqu’au fond de mon coeur.
Ô toi, que la nuit rend si belle,
Qu’il m’est doux, penché vers tes seins,
D’écouter la plainte éternelle
Qui sanglote dans les bassins!
Lune, eau sonore, nuit bénie,
Arbres qui frissonnez autour,
Votre pure mélancolie
Est le miroir de mon amour.
Your pretty eyes are tired, poor darling!
Keeping them closed, stay a long time still
in that nonchalant pose
in which pleasure came upon you.
Out in the courtyard the chattering fountain
never silent night or day
is gently prolonging the ecstasy
into which love has plunged me this evening.
The water-sheaf that waves
to and fro its thousand flowers,
and through which the moon
shines its pallid rays,
falls like a shower
of large teardrops.
Even so your soul, set ablaze
by the burning flash of pleasure,
leaps up, rapid and bold,
towards the vast enchanted skies.
And then it spills, dying,
in a wave of sad languor
down an invisible slope
into the depths of my heart.
Oh beloved, who night makes so beautiful,
as I lean over your breasts, I find it sweet
to listen to the eternal lament
that sobs in the fountain-basins!
Oh moon, sounds of water, blessed night,
oh trees trembling all around,
your pure melancholy
is the mirror of my love.
The poet is François Villon (1431-1463)
Faulse beauté, qui tant me couste cher,
Rude en effect, hypocrite doulceur,
Amour dure, plus que fer, à mascher;
Nommer que puis de ma deffaçon seur.
Charme felon, la mort d’ung povre cueur,
Orgueil mussé, qui gens met au mourir,
Yeulx sans pitié! ne veult droict de rigueur
Sans empirer, ung povre secourir?
Mieulx m’eust valu avoir esté crier
Ailleurs secours, c’eust esté mon bonheur:
Rien ne m’eust sceu de ce fait arracher;
Trotter m’en fault en fuyte à deshonneur.
Haro, haro, le grand et le mineur!
Et qu’est cecy? mourray sans coup ferir,
Ou pitié peult, selon ceste teneur,
Sans empirer, ung povre secourir.
Ung temps viendra, qui fera desseicher,
Jaulnir, flestrir, vostre espanie fleur:
J’en risse lors, se tant peusse marcher,
Mais las! nenny: ce seroit donc foleur,
Vieil je seray; vous, laide et sans couleur.
Or, beuvez, fort, tant que ru peult courir.
Ne donnez pas à tous ceste douleur
Sans empirer, ung povre secourir.
Envoi
Prince amoureux, des amans le greigneur,
Vostre mal gré ne vouldroye encourir;
Mais tout franc cueur doit, par Nostre Seigneur,
Sans empirer, ung povre secourir.
False beauty, which costs me so dear,
Rough indeed, hypocritical gentleness,
Love harder to chew on than iron;
I can name u=you sister of my ruin.
Treacherous charm, killer of a poor heart,
Masked pride that puts men to death,
Eyes without pity! Will not stem justice,
Without worsening his lot, come to a porr man’s aid?
It would have been better for me to have cried
For help elsewhere, then would I have been happy:
But nothing could have torn me away from the path I followed;
I must flee headlong towards dishonor.
Shame, shame, the great and the small!
And what is this? Shall I die without striking a blow, or can pity, on these terms,
Without worsening his lot, come to a porr man’s aid?
A time will come that shall dry out
To a yellow husk your flower’s bloom:
Then will I laugh, if I still can,
But alas! No: that would be madness,
I shall be old; you ugly and colorless.
So drink deep, while the brook still runs.
Do not cast this misery on everyone;
Without worsening his lot, come to a poor man’s aid.
Prince of love, lord of lovers,
I would not wish to incur your displeasure;
But every open heart out, by Our Lord,
Without worsening his lot, to come to a poor man’s aid.
Dame du ciel, regente terrienne,
Emperière des infernaulx palux,
Recevez-moy, vostre humble chrestienne,
Que comprinse soye entre vos esleuz,
Ce non obstant qu’oncques riens ne valuz.
Les biens de vous, ma dame et ma maistresse,
Sont trop plus grans que ne suys pecheresse,
Sans lesquelz bien ame ne peult
Merir n’avoir les cieulx,
Je n’en suis mentèresse.
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir.
À vostre Filz dictes que je suys sienne;
De luy soyent mes pechez aboluz:
Pardonnez-moy comme à l’Egyptienne,
Ou comme il feut au clerc Theophilus,
Lequel par vous fut quitte et absoluz,
Combien qu’il eust au diable faict promesse.
Preservez-moy que je n’accomplisse ce!
Vierge portant sans rompure encourir
Le sacrement qu’on celebre à la messe.
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir.
Femme je suis povrette et ancienne,
Qui riens ne sçay, oncques lettre ne leuz;
Au moustier voy dont suis paroissienne,
Paradis painct où sont harpes et luz,
Et ung enfer où damnez sont boulluz:
L’ung me faict paour, l’aultre joye et liesse.
La joye avoir faismoy, haulte Deesse,
A qui pecheurs doibvent tous recourir,
Comblez de foy, sans faincte ne paresse.
En ceste foy je vueil vivre et mourir.
Lady of heave, queen of the earth,
Empress of the depths of the underworld,
Receive me, your humble Christian maidservant,
That I may be counted among your elect,
Even though I am nothing of value.
My lady and mistress, your goodness
Is so much greater than my sinfulness,
And without it no soul can deserve
Or reach heaven; I speak no more than the truth.
In this faith I wish to live and die.
To your Son say that I am his;
By him may my sins be removed:
Forgive me as he forgave the Egyptian woman,
Or as he did the clerk Theophilus,
Who was acquitted and absolved by you,
Even though he had made a pact with the devil.
Preserve me from doing likewise!
Virgin who hears without incurring sin
The sacrament that I celebrated in the mass.
In this faith I wish to live and die.
I am a poor old woman
Who knows nothing; I cannot rad;
In the monastery where I am a parishioner
Ther eis apainting of Paradise with harps and lutes,
And a hell where the damned are boiled:
This fills me with terror, the other with joy and happiness.
Let me have joy, great Goddess
To who all sinners must turn,
And be wholly possessed by faith, free of preference or sloth.
In this faith I wish to live and die.
Quoy qu’on tient belles langagières
Florentines, Veniciennes, assez pour estre messaigières,
Et mesmement les anciennes;
Mais, soient Lombardes, Romaines, Genevoises,
À mes perils, Piemontoises, Savoysiennes,
Il n’est bon bec que de Paris.
De beau parler tiennent chayeres,
Ce dit-on Napolitaines,
Et que sont bonnes cacquetières
Allemandes et Bruciennes;
Soient Grecques, Egyptiennes,
De Hongrie ou d’aultre païs,
Espaignolles ou Castellannes,
Il n’est bon bec que de Paris.
Brettes, Suysses, n’y sçavent guèrres,
Ne Gasconnes et Tholouzaines;
Du Petit Pont deux harangères les concluront,
Et les Lorraines, Anglesches ou Callaisiennes,
(ay-je beaucoup de lieux compris?)
Picardes, de Valenciennes…
Il n’est bon bec que de Paris.
Prince, aux dames parisiennes,
De bien parler donnez le prix;
Quoy qu’on die d’Italiennes,
Il n’est bon bec que de Paris.
Albeit the Venice girls get praise
For their sweet speech and tender air,
And though the old women have wise ways
Of chaffering for amorous ware,
Yet at my peril dare I swear,
Search Rome, where God’s grace mainly tarries,
Florence and Savoy, everywhere,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
The Naples women, as folk prattle,
Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough:
German girls are good at tattle,
And Prussians make their boast thereof;
Take Egypt for the next remove,
Or that waste land the Tartar harries,
Spain or Greece, for the matter of love,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris. ?
Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter,
Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse;
Two fishwomen with a half-hour’s chatter
Would shut them up by threes and twos;
Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews,
(Names enow the made song marries)
England and Picardy, search them and choose,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris. ?
Prince give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
‘Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is,
But no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
Baudelaire was also the poet for Harmonie du soir
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige,
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir,
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige.
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir,
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige,
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige,
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige…
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige.
Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige, –
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir.
Here come the moments when, quivering on its stem,
each flower gives off fragrance like a censer;
the sounds and perfumes circle in the evening air,
a melancholy waltz, a languid dizziness!
Each flower gives off fragrance like a censer;
the violin trembles like a heart in distress,
a melancholy waltz, a languid dizziness!
The sky is sad and beautiful like a vast altar.
The violin trembles like a heart in distress,
a tender heart, which hates the huge, dark void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like a vast altar;
the sun has drowned in its own congealing blood.
A tender heart, which hates the huge, dark void,
gathers up every relic of the harmonious past!
The sun has drowned in its own congealing blood, –
the memory of you shines in me like a monstrance!