Marie Dauguet: 'Printemps I' (Revue Littéraire, 1906)

 

Spring

 

                I

 

I have undressed my soul and mirror it quite bare,

Sincere but bare,

In the pale surface of the pool,

But have not recognised it there,

My fleeting, shifting soul that’s caught

And patterned by the water, stirred

By April’s soft and subtle breeze

And blurred.

 

While diverse seasons come and go

Like time it changes at the whim 

Of winds that roar or whisper low,

 

Of which the mournful crumhorns sing

And serpents with their endless drone

In forests autumn then adorns

With a wine-purple tint,

 

Or by which the vermilion flute

Among the buds which now unfold

Leads circling bees along their route.

 

To winds that whisper low or roar,

Like passing time my soul has changed,

It also: fluctuating chords,

 

Appearance’s reflected glints

And contours with deceptive hints

Of transmutations without end.

 

Setting suns growing

Violet;

Gloamings

of deep-purpled roses;

Noon bugles with resounding blare;

A faint harmonica just there

That tinkles with a sound so slight

As twilight deepens into night,

When tiny wrens begin to cheep

And toads’ long callings now respond

Around the shaggy rims of ponds.

 

Colour of dawn, colour of moon.

Songs or gleamings of every hue.
Mauve that resigns itself or poppy whose heart bursts,

It matters not if it be one,

 

My soul!

All of it immortal except its outer face

Fleeing like the wind that from dark-rimmed shores can race.

 

May its vain mask worn yesterday

Be as if dead;

Hardened from withstanding the winter gale that whines,

May its sleep be transfixed beneath thick ivy vines;

I leave it there –

Its looks, though I once used them, now startle with their lines…

 

My soul’s no longer that clay vase

Which once held an elixir so phenomenal:

Embers and mists…

 

Like some old wide-brimmed glass on which vines twist and turn

That overflows with a strong wine,

Springtime now refills it with radiant perfumes.

 

 * * * * *

 

By willows with branches that hang,

Disguised with blue snow, my soul,

(With flame

And with peat)

With its tunic that is as pallid as a shroud,

My soul full of weeping and with cheeks stained with blood

My mysterious soul,

Player of the flute and with hair encircled by

Hyacinths,

Looks in the pool,

Anxious of that which it is,

Its image uncertain…