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Le jardin mouillé

Roussel (1903)

La croisée est ouverte; il pleut
Comme minutieusement,
A petit bruit et peu à peu,
Sur le jardin frais et dormant,

Feuille à feuille, la pluie éveille
L'arbre poudreux qu'elle verdit;
Au mur, on dirait que la treille
S'étire d'un geste engourdi.

L'herbe frémit, le gravier tiède
Crépite et l'on croirait là-bas
Entendre sur le sable et l'herbe
Comme d'imperceptibles pas.

Le jardin chuchotte et tressaille,
Furtif et confidentiel;
L'averse semble maille à maille
Tisser la terre avec le ciel.

Il pleut, et, les yeux clos, j'écoute,
De toute sa pluie à la fois,
Le jardin mouillé qui s'égoutte
Dans l'ombre que j'ai faite en moi.

Henri de Régnier

The wet garden

 

The casement is open, it is raining
as if meticulously,
with gentle pattering, little by little,
on the fresh and sleeping garden.

Leaf by leaf the rain awakens
the dusty tree which it turns green;
against the wall the vine
seems to be stretching lazily out.

The grass quivers, the warm gravel
crackles and, over there, it seems as though
one can hear imperceptible footsteps
on the sand and the grass.

The garden whispers and shudders,
shy and confidential;
the downpour seems, stitch on stitch,
to be weaving the earth into the sky.

It is raining, and, with closed eyes, I listen
to the wet garden as it drains
all its rain at once
into the shadow I have made within me.

© translated by Christopher Goldsack

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