When I was 13, my French professor father had a sabbatical in Paris and my brothers and I attended a French school. Sessions ran from 9-12 and 2-5 with a two-hour lunch break, and for the final half hour of each session we memorized poetry. To this day I can still recite various fables of La Fontaine and short poems by Guillaume Apollinaire and Paul Verlaine, including the heart-rending “Chanson d’autumne.”
I later learned that Verlaine’s poem, which could be about growing old or entering depression, is a French favorite. As a child, however, I just knew that it tugged at my heart with a delicious sadness as I recited it aloud. I imagined myself as the dead leaf, giving myself over to the wind and allowing myself to blown hither and yon. The image seemed to add gravitas to my life.
Here it is, first in French and then in English.
Chanson d’automne
By Paul Verlaine
Les sanglos longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon Coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours ancients
Et je pleure
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Autumn Song
The long sobs
Of the violins
Of Autumn
Wound my heart
With a monotonous
Languor
All choked
And pale, when
The hour chimes,
I remember
Days of old
And I cry
And I depart
On an ill wind
That carries me
Here and there,
As if a
Dead leaf.
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