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Fauré - Arpège


Fauré (1897)

L'âme d'une flûte soupire
Au fond du parc mélodieux;
L'impide est l'ombre où l'on respire
Ton poème silencieux,

Nuit de langueur, nuit de mensonge,
Qui pose d'un geste ondoyant
Dans ta chevelure de songe
La lune, bijou d'Orient.

Sylva, Sylvie et Sylvanire,
Belles au regard bleu changeant,
L'étoile aux fontaines se mire,
Allez par les sentiers d'argent,

Allez vite _ l'heure est si brève!
Cueillir au jardin des aveux
Les cœurs qui se meurent du rêve
De mourir parmi vos cheveux...

Albert Samain



The soul of a flute is sighing
at the bottom of the melodious park;
limpid is the shadow where one breathes
your silent poem,

Nnight of languor, night of untruth,
which, with an undulating gesture, places
the moon, jewel of the Orient,
in you hair of dreams.

Sylva, Sylvie et Sylvanire,
fair ones with changing blue gazes,
the star mirrors itself in the fountains,
go by the silver paths,

go quickly _ the hour is so brief _
to gather, in the garden of avowals,
the hearts which are dying of the dream
of dying amidst your hair...

© translated by Christopher Goldsack

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