5. To André Chénier

Yes, my verse plans to, without stooping low,
Borrow from prose’s more casual flow.
André, it’s true: my lyre is sometimes jokesome.
Here’s why: While still young, when reading the darksome
Fearful Book of the Forest and Water,
I dwelt in a sombre park where birds would chatter,
Teardrops smiling in periwinkles’ blue eyes.
One day, as I mused alone amidst the boughs,
A bullfinch—the woods’ own gossip-columnist—
Said to me: “Why do you walk the earth solemnest?
Nature just doesn’t take mankind too seriously;
O poet, your songs—or what you call poesy—
Would more resemble her if you let out some air.
The woods have sighs, but they also have blares.
The azure gleams—gaiety pulls it apart;
Olympus retains grandeur even with laughs;
Don’t think the poet in spirit declines
When a word dances-by between two lofty lines.
The high frenzied wind is not only a mourner;
The deep tide is no sentimental song-crooner;
And Nature, through ages and nights, avanti
Yokes Rabelais to the sorrows of Dante,
And dark Ugolino to Grandgousier’s malform is
Displaying both huge grief and laughter enormous.

Les Roches, July 1830