La Promenade

Ô forêts si joliment peintes
Sur le penchant du coteau vert
Où serpente ma promenade !
Pour chaque aiguillon dans le coeur
Un doux repos me récompense,
Quand il fait sombre dans mon âme :
Depuis toujours art et pensée
Ont pour salaire la douleur.
ô jolies images du val,
Arbres et jardins, par exemple,
Et puis ce sentier très étroit,
Le ruisseau qu'on devine à peine ;
De quel éclat brille gaiement
Au lointain la splendide image
Du paysage que je hante
Volontiers sous un ciel clément.
La Divinité nous guide, amicale,
Avec du bleu pour commencer,
Puis des nuages qu'elle arrange,
D'une forme arrondie et grise,
Avec les feux d'éclairs, les coups
De tonnerre, les champs, leur charme,
Et la beauté qui sourd aux sources
De l'Image toute première.

HÖLDERLIN, Poèmes

Waldeinsamkeit

I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
Like God it useth me.

In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,
Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky;

Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic care derides,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns.

The black ducks mounting from the lake,
The pigeon in the pines,
The bittern's boom, a desert make
Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook,
Where bearded mists devide,
The gray old gods whom Chaos knew,
The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air,
Blows the sweet breath of song,
O, few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong!

See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.

Ralph Waldo EMERSON, Poetry (1857)

Fable

The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig;"
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."

Ralph Waldo EMERSON, Poetry (1845)