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The poet must, as he loves shade and azure,
Gentle, grand spirit, whose radiance is pure,
Who walks before all, enlightening the uncertain,
Mysterious singer to whom, trembling, hearken
Women and dreamers and sages and lovers —
Must at some moments grow stronger, grow tougher.
Sometimes, when a book first provokes its dreams,
As all soothes, beguiles, dazzles, caresses and calms
Where the soul, at each step, finds sustenance, where
The darkest recesses are lit by sky’s glare,
In the midst of this humble and lofty verse,
Where the chosen flower grows in its sacred peace,
Where the flowing of springs and of tears are heard,
Where the stanza, like a thousand-coloured bird,
Flies singing of love, hope, jollity,
One must, from time to time, shiver to see
Suddenly, dark, grave, terrifying those who are nearing,
A tawny verse emerge from the shadows roaring!
The poet with his fertile seeds must be
Like the deep forest, fresh and green,
Full of songs, love of the wind and the sunrays shine on,
Charming, where suddenly, one encounters a lion.

Paris, May 1842.