The Venus
Walking back from the Louvre, yesterday:
I had walked under the arches,
Where the chorus of antique Venus,
Was aligned, gracious and proud.
To these marbles, divine fossils,
Pleasure of the astonished eye,
I thought it well it was given,
The castles of kings for refugees.
Like I went, ecstatic,
Came to pass a beggar,
Her gaze troubled my drunkenness,
and filled my soul with pity.
Ah! said-I, How pale is she,
and sad, and how her traits are beautiful!
While her tight skirt is in shreds;
She crosses delicately her scarf.
Her head is uncovered, her hair
poorly tied, Floating behind her,
forming their natural wave;
The mirror finds it no trouble.
But from the dot of her needles,
The tip of her fingers are black,
And her eyes, from the evening work,
Have almost gone blind, poor girl.
Alas! You have nor fire nor place;
Sob and beg at the street corners,
The palace has our statues,
And you have only fallen from the hand of God.
Your beauty will have no temple,
And we shall barter your body;
That shape without soul, dead eyes,
Only she, is worth contemplating.
Fight for bread with the greedy,
And for the wool over your shoulders,
The women of stone have the Louvres,
The live ones will die hungry!
SULLY-PRUDHOMME,
de l'Academie Francaise,
translated by Louis Toussaint
I had walked under the arches,
Where the chorus of antique Venus,
Was aligned, gracious and proud.
To these marbles, divine fossils,
Pleasure of the astonished eye,
I thought it well it was given,
The castles of kings for refugees.
Like I went, ecstatic,
Came to pass a beggar,
Her gaze troubled my drunkenness,
and filled my soul with pity.
Ah! said-I, How pale is she,
and sad, and how her traits are beautiful!
While her tight skirt is in shreds;
She crosses delicately her scarf.
Her head is uncovered, her hair
poorly tied, Floating behind her,
forming their natural wave;
The mirror finds it no trouble.
But from the dot of her needles,
The tip of her fingers are black,
And her eyes, from the evening work,
Have almost gone blind, poor girl.
Alas! You have nor fire nor place;
Sob and beg at the street corners,
The palace has our statues,
And you have only fallen from the hand of God.
Your beauty will have no temple,
And we shall barter your body;
That shape without soul, dead eyes,
Only she, is worth contemplating.
Fight for bread with the greedy,
And for the wool over your shoulders,
The women of stone have the Louvres,
The live ones will die hungry!
SULLY-PRUDHOMME,
de l'Academie Francaise,
translated by Louis Toussaint