Blog 35: Poems (in both French and English)

I, from a window where the Meuse is wide,
Looked eastward out to the September night;
The men that in the hopeless battle died
Rose, and deployed, and stationed for the fight;
A brumal army, vague and ordered large
For mile on mile by some pale general,-
I saw them lean by companies to the charge,
But no man living heard the bugle-call.

And fading still, and pointing to their scars,
They fled in lessening clouds, where gray and high
Dawn lay along the heaven in misty bars;
But watching from that eastern casement, I
Saw the Republic splendid in the sky,
And round her terrible head the morning stars.

Founded on: poemhunter.com

 Now for the french version:

I, a partir d'une fenetre ou la Meuse est large,
Vu l'est vers la nuit Septembre;
Les hommes que dans la bataille sans espoir est mort
Rose, et deployees, et stationne a la lutte;
Une armee Brumal, vague et a ordonne la grande
Pour mile sure mile par certains generaux pale, -
Je les ai vu maigre par les entreprises a la charge,
Mais nul homme vivant ne entendu le clairon.

Et encore la decoloration, et pointant vers leurs cicatrices,
Ils se sont enfuis a attenuer les nuages, ou le gris et de haute
Dawn se trouvaient sur le ciel brumeux dans les bars;
Mais en regardant de ce battant l'Est, je
ciel Saw la Republique dans le splendide,
Et autour de sa tete terrible les etoiles du matin.

Since I'm the only French IV student at the Senior High I have to take class with French III students and one of our assignments for next week will be to read a poem in french. This is the english version of what I'll be reading; Mois de Septembre (The Month of September) by Hilaire Belloc. He's an Anglo-Frenchman from the 19th century. This is a poem out of a series of months and it's about the French Revolutionary War. I found it interesting and well written and I hope you do too!



Depuis ma prime enfance je ne suis pas comme les autres;
Je ne vois pas ce que les autres voient;
Je n’ai pas su tirer mes passions au puits commun.
Ma tristesse ne provient pas de la même source.
Je n’ai pas su éveiller mon coeur à la même joie;
Tout ce que j’ai aimé, je l’ai aimé seul.
Puis, dans ma enfance, à l’aube d’une vie tourmentée,
c’est de chaque profondeur du bien et du mal,
que fut puisé ce mystère qui m’enchaîne toujours.
Du torrent et de la fontaine,
De la falaise rouge de la montagne,
Du soleil qui roulait autour de moi
En son or automnal,
De l’éclair dans les cieux
Qui me frôlait et s’enfuyait,
Du tonnerre et de l’orage,
Et du nuage qui se métamorphosait
(alors que le reste du ciel était bleu)
En démon à mes yeux.

Founded on schabrieres.wordpress.com

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were---I have not seen
As others saw---I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd, I loved alone.
Then---in my childhood---in the dawn
Of a most stormy life---was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold---
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by---
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Founded on poemhunter.com

This doesn't have much significance to any school work, but it's my favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem ever written. He's one of my favorite poets in all of history and literature! This poem is also used in a book that I love to read called Demon in my View by Amelia At-Water Rhodes; one of the books from her vampire series. She's an amazing author and first started writing at the age of 13! You should really check her out and more of Edgar Allan Poe's work!

ELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there;

From joy the holy branches start,

And all the trembling flowers they bear.

The changing colours of its fruit

Have dowered the stars with merry light;

The surety of its hidden root

Has planted quiet in the night;

The shaking of its leafy head

Has given the waves their melody,

And made my lips and music wed,

Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

There the Loves a circle go,

The flaming circle of our days,

Gyring, spiring to and fro

In those great ignorant leafy ways;

Remembering all that shaken hair

And how the wingèd sandals dart,

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

 

Gaze no more in the bitter glass

The demons, with their subtle guile,

Lift up before us when they pass,

Or only gaze a little while;

For there a fatal image grows

That the stormy night receives,

Roots half hidden under snows,

Broken boughs and blackened leaves.

For all things turn to barrenness

In the dim glass the demons hold,

The glass of outer weariness,

Made when God slept in times of old.

There, through the broken branches, go

The ravens of unresting thought;

Flying, crying, to and fro,

Cruel claw and hungry throat,

Or else they stand and sniff the wind,

And shake their ragged wings; alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:

Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

Founded on poemhunter.com

This also has no significance but I absolutely adore this poem, it's one of my all-time favorites! I've never read anything else by W.B. Yeats, but I'm sure that they're just as amazing! This is also used in an Amelia AtWater-Rhodes novel: Shattered Mirror which is also a great book, you should check it out as well! 




The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

Founded on poemhunter.com

The Tyger is one of my most favorites out of any poetry list. William Blake was a genius and I'm glad to be knowledgeable in his writings. This is another one used in a different Amelia AtWater-Rhodes novel: Forest of the Night, which name derived from this poem. I've done a reflection on this poem for a class because I enjoy it so much! 

I would add more but I'm pretty sure this blog is way long anyway, so I'll let them inspire you to research poems and find a style that you like. There's literally a poem out there for everything.