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The Lake

(after Alphonse de Lamartine)

Thus, ever driven onward to new shores, borne constantly away, 
Can we never, in the Ocean of the Ages, drop anchor for a day? 

Oh, this beautiful lake! The year has hardly flown, 
yet here am I, beside these so-beloved waves of hers. Here, but alone. 

Waves! You crashed against these rocks for her, white-blazing, beat 
your heads against the wind, but also caressed her lovely feet. 

One night - do you remember? - we lay here and felt 
the rhythmic swish of oarsmen, slicing through your pelt. 

That night was so enchanted, I swear to you I heard 
accents never known on earth, as she let fall these words: 

"Oh, Time, stop your flight! Hours, don't run away! 
Allow us to savor this delight, the best of life's brief day! 

So many unhappy ones implore you. Run, run for them. 
Take, too, the cares which eat them up. But leave us in pacem. 

It's fruitless to complain, but these moments aren't enough: 
I beg shy Night to linger, but look - bold Dawn scares her off. 

So let us love, then. Let us love! Time can not be caged. 
Make haste: we'll strut our tiny hour, and then must quit the stage." 

Jealous Time! Why do you rob with such frank eagerness 
our days of joy, but dawdle when you see us in distress? 

Why is it that we live and love, but leave no trace? 
Why give us these raptures, which you then efface? 

Eternity. Nothingness. The Past. Such somber chasms! 
Where do you hide our human fire, our passion-prompted spasms? 

Lake! Tall rocks! Oh, deep and secret woods! Nos amis! 
Won't you keep of us at least some memory? 

We live on in your calm, Sweet Lake, your storms, your laughing shores, 
your gloomy pine trees, craggy rocks, through which the water roars. 


It's in the summer wind we'll live, which ruffles as it kisses, 
and in the single thoughtful star, which reflects and reminisces. 

The rose which droops, the oak in ivy gloved, 
the fragrance of the forest. These will tell the world, "They loved!"

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Darren White Date: 3/10/2017 12:04:00 AM First I must say something here. Writing your own poetry is an art. Translating is art within art, hardly ever recognized. In my bio I write that it is like being Houdini, chained to the original, yet freeing yourself to write real poetry. If someone does a real good translation, I am awed. I don't think I said this to you already, but I am awed by your ability to translate. Translation for me is something so incredibly satisfying (will be continued) Login to Reply Darren White Date: 3/10/2017 7:01:00 AM By translating more :) Michael Coy Date: 3/10/2017 5:42:00 AM I'm lost for words! How do I reply to such a generous compliment? Darren White Date: 3/10/2017 12:09:00 AM I heard of Lamartine, but I never read this poem, so I looked up the original. So I know you had to deviate here and there. (continuing in next comment) Darren White Date: 3/10/2017 12:09:00 AM I do not object, because especially when you aim for a rhyming translation, it is inevitable: "Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,// Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,// Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit ou l'on respire, Tout dise : Ils ont aimé !//... I bow my head for you, Sir, because it's truly beautiful :)