Posts Tagged ‘john Keats’

keats 4

John Keats.

Il y a des week-end paisibles chers Amis, où il me semble difficile de ne pas lire un poème de Keats… Surtout en Anglais (même si je ne maîtrise pas cette langue que j’aime). Mais la musicalité des mots, le sens essentiel, et l’imagination me suffisent.

Celui-ci par exemple :

To Hope

WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit,
When no fair dreams before my – mind’s eye – flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

Should e’er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country’s honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom’s shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed –
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress’d,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.

February, 1815.

Poems (1817)

Edmund Blair Leighton

Edmund Blair Leighton

Mes Amis, Vous trouverez sur ces deux sites (français et Anglais), un travail honorable et stimulant pour approcher le poète (en dehors du plaisir des livres eux-mêmes, cela va de soi)…

En Anglais : http://www.john-keats.com/

En Français
(dans la très sérieuse encyclopédie « L’Agora » ) : http://agora.qc.ca/dossiers/John_Keats

Merci à tous…


Marcus Stone - The End Of The Story

Marcus Stone – The End Of The Story

Read Full Post »

keats 1


Chers Amis,

Juste le plaisir de relire ce beau poème de Wilde en hommage au poète John KEATS (bien que je ne sois pas certaine que cette traduction soit la plus fidèle)

En Français :


Délivré de ce monde injuste, et de sa peine,
Il se repose enfin sous le dais bleu de Dieu,
Emporté quand amour et vie s’ouvraient radieux,
Le plus jeune martyr gît, ici, dans la plaine,
Comme Sébastien, beau et mort, adulte à peine.
Nul cyprès sur sa tombe et nul if ténébreux,
Mais la violette, avec de la rosée aux yeux, Lui tisse, de ses fleurs, une éternelle chaîne.
Toi, le plus fier des cœurs, que le malheur brisa !
Ta lèvre douce – ainsi qu’à Mytilène – enchante !
Toi, le poète-peintre de notre Angleterre !
Ton nom demeurera – écrit sur l’eau naguère ;
Et mes pleurs garderont ta mémoire vivante,
Comme le basilic, qu’Isabelle arrosa.

keats 2

John Keats sur son lit de mort.

En Anglais :

The Grave Of Keats

RID of the world’s injustice, and his pain,
He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery!
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
O poet-painter of our English Land!
Thy name was writ in water—-it shall stand:
And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

Oscar Wilde

wilde 7

Read Full Post »