Arthur Rimbaud
(1854-91)
from Derniers Vers
Eros, Moral, Christentum
Ô saisons, ô châteaux
Ô saisons ô châteaux,
Quelle âme est sans défauts ?
Ô saisons, ô châteaux,
J'ai fait la magique étude
Du Bonheur, que nul n'élude.
Ô vive lui, chaque fois
Que chante son coq gaulois.
Mais ! je n'aurai plus d'envie,
Il s'est chargé de ma vie.
Ce Charme ! il prit âme et corps.
Et dispersa tous efforts.
Que comprendre à ma parole ?
Il fait qu'elle fuie et vole !
Ô saisons, ô châteaux !
Et, si le malheur m'entraîne,
Sa disgrâce m'est certaine.
Il faut que son dédain, las !
Me livre au plus prompt trépas !
– Ô Saisons, ô Châteaux !
O seasons, O castles
O seasons, O castles,
What soul is without defects?
O seasons, O castles,
I made the magic study
Of that Happiness, which cannot be escaped.
Long may it live, every time
That its French cockerel sings.
However! I don’t want it any more,
It took over my life.
That Charm! it took soul and shape.
And it dispersed all my efforts.
What to understand in my words?
It makes them run away and fly!
O seasons, O castles!
And, if misfortune draws me away,
Its disfavour to me is certain.
It is necessary that her contempt, weary!
Deliver me to the most prompt demise!
– O seasons, O castles!
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