Treasure Island

Arthur Rimbaud

(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891 / Charleville, Ardennes)

Asleep In The Valley


A small green valley where a slow stream flows
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the Sun's
Rays; they fill the hollow full of light.

A soldier, very young, lies open-mouthed,
A pillow made of fern beneath his head,
Asleep; stretched in the heavy undergrowth,
Pale in his warm, green, sun-soaked bed.

His feet among the flowers, he sleeps. His smile
Is like an infant's - gentle, without guile.
Ah, Nature, keep him warm; he may catch cold.

The humming insects don't disturb his rest;
He sleeps in sunlight, one hand on his breast;
At peace. In his side there are two red holes.


Original French

Le Dormeur du Val


C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, lèvre bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

Submitted: Saturday, April 03, 2010

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  • Johann Joseph Claßen (12/12/2012 2:08:00 PM)

    German Translation by

    Johann Joseph Clahsen

    Der Schläfer im Tal

    Nach Arthur Rimbaud, Le dormeur du val


    Das Tal, grün lichtumflirrt und übergossen,
    Vom Fluß in trunk’nen Ufern glanzbeschäumt,
    Bis prunkvoll helle Höhen Sonne säumt:
    Das schmale Tal fließt strahlenüberflossen.

    Ein Soldat, mit offnem Helm und Munde,
    Schläft im Mittagsfunkeln duftumblaut,
    Den Nacken eingetaucht ins Heidekraut –
    Jung, himmelwärts das Antlitz auf vom Grunde

    Fiel hingestreckt in Blüten wie ein Kind
    Nach Fieberträumen fest er in den Schlummer
    Und kalt, obwohl ihn Lüfte warm umschließen!

    Kein Nasenflügel zuckt im duft’gen Wind;
    Er ruht, rot lichtumflirrt die Hand auf stummer
    Brust, aus der hinträufelnd Rosen sprießen. (Report) Reply

Read all 1 comments »

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