Old Age

THE seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Edmund Waller. 1606–1687

Traduction libre par Musael :

Les eaux se calment quand les vents se taisent;
Ainsi faisons nous quand les passions nous quittent.
Et que nous constatons la vacuité de notre orgueil
Pour des choses fanées qui ne furent jamais nôtres.
Brouillards d’affection qui, à nos yeux de jeunesse,
Cachaient la vérité que l’âge nous révèle.

De la sombre masure de l’âme, ravagée et délabrée
Par les injures du temps, filtre une lumière nouvelle.
L’homme songé par inclinaison se fortifie
À mesure qu’il approche de son dernier repos.
Sans quitter des yeux le vieux monde, il regarde déjà
Celui où il s’apprête à entrer.

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To Death

To Death

COME not in terrors clad, to claim
An unresisting prey:
Come like an evening shadow, Death!
So stealthily, so silently!
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;
Then willingly, O willingly,
With thee I’ll go away!

Caroline Southey. 1787–1854

Traduction libre par Musael:

Ne viens pas sous des traits terrifiants
réclamer une proie consentante;
Viens plutôt comme la tombée du soir, Ô Mort!
Subrepticement, enveloppée de silence,
Viens me fermer les yeux et prendre mon soufle.
Alors, de bon gré, oh, de si bon gré,
Avec toi, je partirai.

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The Lover’s Seasons

The Lover’s Seasons

Timidly, May just pointed out

Yet, buds of lust already shout,

Cheering the joyful arousing

Of our slumb’rous senses yawning

In June, Love is a busy bee

It goes drunk as the perfumes flee:

So much flowers to embrace

One can hardly know where to gaze.

Still, July can see him at work

Hanging at every daisy’s skirt,

Humming his cajoling chantry

All across the florid country.

August may infernally blaze

Our brave lover’s still in chase;

Already drunk in the morning

He never give up till ev’ning.

But here comes the cool September;

Mister Love’s heart starts to slumber

Since he is getting overloaded

As he burgled each bloomed road

Autumn finds him nearly frozen,

All his pledges are forgotten. 

There’s enough crop to worry not

But let’s  give it one more shot.

But here’s Winter, the harsh Winter.

For him Love is a vain matter:

There’s so much to do mid the gloom

To make sure next Summer will bloom.

Musael

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