Too deep for tears
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Si rien ne peut ramener la gloire
et la splendeur des fleurs
nous ne les pleurons pas
nous tirons notre force
de ce qui reste de la communion première
qui pour avoir été sera à jamais
dans la douceur des sources
que répand l'humaine souffrance
dans la foi qui annule le deuil
grâce au cœur humain qui bat et nous fait vivre
grâce à sa tendresse, à ses joies, à ses craintes
A mes yeux la plus humbles des fleurs écloses
fait éclore à son tour des songes
qui transcende les larmes et le sang.
poème extrait du film " Et au milieu coule une rivière" de Robert Redford
Poème que j'attribue après recherche à William Wordsworth. 1770–1850:
que l'on peut retrouver dans sa version originale ici:
Ode
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never:
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth
et Résumé et analyse de "Ode; Intimation of Immortality" là:
Summary and Analysis of "Ode; Intimations of Immortality"
Et aussi une traduction un peu résumé -merci google même avec les imperfections!, c'est bien pratique...- :
"Ode; Intimation de l'Immortalité"
"Ode; Intimation d'immortalité" est un long poème, un peu compliqué sur
la communion de Wordsworth à la nature et de sa lutte pour comprendre
l'échec de l'humanité à reconnaître la valeur du monde naturel.
Le poème est élégiaque en ce qu'il parle du regret de la perte.
Wordsworth est attristé d'avoir perdu la spontanéité sauvage,qu'il avait dans son enfance. et que la Nature lui apportait.
Il estime
que la perte résulte d'être trop pris dans des possessions matérielles. Comme nous grandissons, nous passons du temps de plus en
plus à essayer de comprendre comment atteindre la richesse, tout en
devenant de plus en plus éloigné de la nature.
Le poème est caractérisé par un étrange sentiment de la dualité.
Même si le monde autour de l'orateur est beau, paisible et serein, il
est triste et en colère parce que de ce qu'il (et l'humanité) a perdu.
Parce
que la nature est une
sorte de religion à Wordsworth s'en remet pourtant a la Nature comme à
une religion car il sait qu'elle lui offre tout pour apaiser sa
mélancolie.
La mémoire de l'emerveillemnt de la nature devra être suffisant pour le soutenir, et il décide finalement que cela sera ainsi. Tout
ce que nous avons, pour si peu de temps, ne peut jamais être enlevée
complètement, car il sera toujours tenu dans notre mémoire.
L'orateur commence par déclarer qu'il y avait une époque où la nature semblait
mystique pour lui, comme un rêve. Mais maintenant, tout cela a disparu.
Dans
la deuxième strophe, l'orateur dit que même si il peut encore voir
l'arc en ciel, la rose, la lune et le soleil, et même si ils sont
toujours beau, quelque chose est différent ... quelque chose a été
perdu .
Dans la troisième strophe, l'orateur reste triste en admirant la nature. Bientôt, cependant, il décide de ne pas être déprimée, car cela ne fera que mettre une sourdine la beauté de la nature.
Dans
la quatrième strophe de il continue à glorifier la beauté de la Nature en disant qu'il serait erroné d'être triste alors
que la Terre est si belle.Toutefois,
quand il voit un arbre, un champ, et plus tard une pensée à ses pieds, cela lu donne encore le sentiment que quelque chose ne va
pas. Il demande: «Où fuit la lueur visionnaire? / Où sont maintenant, la gloire et le rêve?
La cinquième strophe contient sans doute la phrase la plus célèbre du poème: "Notre naissance n'est que sommeil et oubli».
Il poursuit en disant que, comme les enfants, nous avons la mémoire
du ciel, mais qu'en grandissant, nous perdons ce communion intime.
Dans la sixième strophe, l'orateur déclare que tout conspire dès la naissance à nous faire oublier cette grâce reçue.
Dans la septième strophe il nous dit que l'enfant va
apprendre de ses expériences et que sa vie sera essentiellement une "expérimentation" sans fin.
Dans la huitième strophe il parle directement à l'enfant, le qualifiant de philosophe. L'orateur ne comprend pas pourquoi l'enfant, qui est si proche du ciel
dans sa jeunesse, veut tant se hâter de devenir adulte .
Dans la neuvième strophe (qui est le plus longue) l'orateur éprouve un flot de joie quand il se rend compte que
par la mémoire, il sera toujours capable de se connecter à son enfance,
et à travers son enfance à la nature.*
La dixième strophe nous ramène au début du poème.
Même ayant perdu le lien privilégié qu'il avait enfant avec la nature, l'orateur est réconforté
par la certitude qu'il peut compter sur sa mémoire.
Dans la dernière strophe de l'orateur affirme que la nature est
toujours la base de tout ce qui est sa vie, lui apportant de la
perspicacité, alimente ses souvenirs et sa conviction que son âme est
immortelle.