Manual Un troublant retour (Azur) (French Edition)

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  3. « l’Après‑midi d’un foehn » et « Vortex », de Phia Ménard, l’Orange bleue à Eaubonne

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Les Hirondelks. Jean Pierre Claris Flokian. How I love to see the swallows At my window every year, For they bring the happy tidings Smiling spring is drawing near. Caged and parted from its lover — Captive in the winter land; Soon you'll see it die of sorrow, While its mate, still lingering nigh, Knows no further joy in sunshine. But on the same day mil die. Point d'hiver pour les cceurs fideles, : lis sont toujours dans le printemps.

Le Glas. Night o'er the sky has spread her veil, The storm with hollow roar draws near; Tn the stars' glimmer, cold and pale, We read a sentence full of fear. Wliat feeble sound — O mother, tell! It is the monastery bell : — Immortal spirit, pass in peace.


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While all caress her, she must die! Must part from all, her life must cease; Sweet love and earthly hope must fly. Or that sad bell may tell instead A dying soldier's mournful tale, Who oft in glorious battle bled. Yet dies within his native vale. Ah, Heaven! Great God, what deathlike silence reigns! I hear no more the solemn bell. That, telling us of mortal pains, In dying murmurs faintly fell. Those eyes will shed no more the tear; The birds' songs on the branches cease: Alas!

O mother dear. La nuit a de'ploye ses voiles : L'orage s'avance en grondant; Sur le front jDale des etoiles Se lit un arret menagant. Quel faible bruit vient, 6 ma mere, Tinter sous nos arbres epais? C'est la cloche du monastere — Ame immortelle, allez en paix. Peut-etre au printemps de sa vie, Quand tout presageait de beaux jours, Une vierge est-elle ravie Aux charmes des premiers amours! Peut-etre cat airain qui sonne En longs et tristes tintements, D'un soldat qu'e'pargna Bellone Annonce les demiers instants.

O ciel! Grand Dieu!

Je n'entends plus le son mourant Dont la triste et sombre eloquence Vient de finir en murmurant. L'oiseau se tait sous la ramee : Vos ycux se sont clos pour jamais; Helas! De mon Village on ne voit plus Paris. Song dated You quitted us, now bitter tears you shed; Leaving a sad remembrance of the past, Your joys, like rapid moments, all have fled — The joys you fancied would for ever last.

Then come with me, sweet mourner, come. Forgotten let thy sorrows be; Believe me, — from my village home This Paris we can never see. Oh, hasten with me to that happy spot, Where childhood's joys together we have known; Come see my meadow green, my pleasant cot, — Come, — cottage, meadow, all shall be your own.

Couplets d via Filleule. You doubtless think 'tis all a blunder; That such a choice should make you cry, Indeed, my child, I do not wonder. A table spread with sweetmeats o'er Would much improve me, I dare say; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you laugh some day.

Your name in friendship I bestow, For friends this post in friendship give me; I'm not a mighty lord — oh, no; Yet I'm a honest man, beUeve me. Before your eyes no glittering store Of costly gifts can I display; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more. For I may make you laugh some day. Though even virtue is confined By Fate's stem laws, which sore oppress her, Godma and I uill bear in mind Our godchild's happiness — God bless her!

While wandering on this rugged shore, Good hearts should never feel dismay; So, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you iaugh some day.

Le soleil est de retour sur la Côte d'Azur

Years hence, upon your wedding-day. Yet 'twould be hard to die before A feast where all will be so gay; — My dearest godchild, weep no more, I'll make you laugh upon that day. And to his happiness devote my life, — And I am young, dear mother, you know well:'' But down, a-down, the sere leaves fell. When I the ring of gold shall wear, And joyfully enwTeath my hair With those white orange-flowers that brides array. A month had past, and autumn now was gone, I saw a new-erected tomb Which on the valley cast a gloom.

And plainly read a name upon the stone — 'Twas Lucy's name.

« l’Après‑midi d’un foehn » et « Vortex », de Phia Ménard, l’Orange bleue à Eaubonne

Think what her mother felt, When bowed by heavy grief in prayer she knelt. When heaven-turned eyes her anguish told too well,- Oh, then no more the sere leaves fell. Za Tourterellc.


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  6. Emile Varin. Emile Varin was one of the writers for the Theatre du Vaudeville before it was burned down in The above song is dated Though thy mngs thy prison beat, Echo only will repeat Thy sighs and mine; Here must I pine E'en as thou, sweet turtle-dove. Without love. My gentle fav'rite, my companion dear, We want for nothing, and I tend thee well ; We love each other, yet our love is drear — Whit makes us thus a-weary, canst thou tell?

    POÈMES SATURNIENS

    Sprmg with his smile so bright We at our window see. Our souls with new delight Cry, "Joy, we wait for thee. The forest trees now put their foliage on, The almond its new flower begins to wear; This genial sun could animate a stone : When all is joyous, why do we despair? Two hearts that are a prey To flames that nought can still, When all around is gay. Access of torment feel.

    And graceful is thy many-coloured neck, A thousand channs thou seemest to combine. To pity's warning shall I give no ear, Or do I dread that scolded I shall be? But then I feel the pain of losing thee.