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C'est l'extase

C'est l'extase

Debussy (1888)
Fauré (1891)

C'est l'extase langoureuse,
C'est la fatigue amoureuse,
C'est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l'étreinte des brises,
C'est, vers les ramures grises,
Le chœur des petites voix.

O le frêle et frais murmure!
Cela gazouille et susurre,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l'herbe agitée expire...
Tu dirais, sous l'eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd des cailloux.

Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante,
C'est la nôtre, n'est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s'exhale l'humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas?

It is ecstasy


This is languorous ecstasy,
this is the weariness of love,
this is all the shiverings of the woods
amidst the embrace of the breezes,
this is the choir of little voices
among the grey boughs.

Oh, the frail and fresh murmuring!
It chirps and whispers.
It sounds like the gentle cry
that the ruffled grass gives out...
You would say it was, beneath the water which swirls,
the muffled rolling of the pebbles.

This soul which mourns itself
by this slumbering complaint,
it is ours, is it not?
Mine, say, and yours,
from which exhales the humble anthem
in this mild evening, so quietly?

© translated by Christopher Goldsack

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