Classic Poem

I

Theophile Gautier! poet
The clear eyes and ruddy,
Whose work was a hymn festival
A drunken life of sun!

At the time of death delirious
With a foolish regret,
Encor admire your proud smile
It out of his icy fingers,

Forgive me, master of charms,
Whose spirit fled to heaven,
If you see my eyes full of tears
Before you thoughtfully immortal.

Forgive me if I cry to you,
For, O Master, it is the humble friend
Praying and sobbing at this time
With the wrestler asleep.

But my own pride chafes
To grieve in such pain,
And I know that this deserves mourning
Something else that tears!

For, O pure genius, great soul
Qu'emplissait holy beauty,
At this point you begin to
A double immortality.

And while your chest,
Deploying his wing of fire,
This was the divine flame
Wings and returns to God,

Proud deadly black night
Winner of stifling silence,
Your genius into glory,
Free, beautiful and triumphant.

However when your daughters cry
And your son are full of fear,
Bleak as those who remain
After men like you;

However, that this sad prison
Considering their despair alive
And while your companion
Crying in her long black veils;

Artist, designer stainless,
Wise and patient worker
Smiling Muse clip
On your forehead the divine bay.

Serene setting in your book
His bright eyes like a torch,
Ever she will deliver
The terror of the grave.

And the desire to snake teeth
A beautiful complain and shout: No!
It shines on your work
Lush, and your name,

The luminous glow and magical,
The melodious blaze
Which befits the lyric poet
In his brilliant triumph;

And waking up in her pink finger
Illustrious and revered singer,
The lights of the apotheosis
Stream down your sacred brow!

II

Already France, who we are,
Sweet mother struck the flank,
In the herd of its great men
Choose your seat in the front row;

And celebrating you in his watch,
It blesses you, picux son,
Having matched the wonders
Qu'enfanterent our great ancestors.

O son of Orpheus and Pindar
Instructed by them in the art of verse,
She is beautiful, in miser century
Your work to a hundred different aspects!

Your young mistress Rime,
Who always does what you want,
Gives you, prodigal sublime,
Diamonds of his hair;

She offers these stones
Which seem transir and burn,
And we see their flowery flames
Sparkle in your poem.

Statuary, the vile trap
Flesh called in vain,
You know the marble side of snow
Bring forth a divine body,

And delight to the fatal night
His shivering enchanted,
And clothing, ideal form,
In invincible chastity.

And Nature, oh colorist!
Wants you to take his treasures:
Diamond, ruby, amethyst,
And blue sapphires and gold;

And by moving your genius,
You do to delight our eyes,
With these materials Charmed
A mysterious blend!

Russia, Egypt, Spain, Greece,
Where the great gods live encor,
We see, if you want it to appear,
All the amazing scenery:

Green forests, bleak plains,
Azure seas with lovely reflections,
Giant snow peaks, pink skies,
Purple mountains flanks;

And large architectures,
Where all the arts are married,
Develop their sleek
And colored details

Temple with white colonnade,
Burg where the grass invaded the court,
Cathedral, Palace of jade,
Alhambra carving day!

In this setting and go live
Kings, warriors, lovers,
The righteous, and those pursued
Wings black punishment;

Any mad human brood
Whose destiny is his toy
All that leads trembling mortals
Love with his cruel whip;

And above all, a thousand, thousand women
Throwing their dull pallor
Divine gold with beautiful lines
Or live flower necklaces;

Virgin praying in their alcoves,
And the crazy looks surprised
Untying their wild manes
On red damask flowers;

One crying like a swan,
Others with air irritated,
But all revealing sign
The irresistible beauty.

III

Beauty! this is the only poem
That thou didst sing under the blue sky,
Grand lyre holder and yourself
You were wise and handsome as a god.

Without anything ever wrathful,
A calm look and contemptuous
Shining in your sweet apple;
It seemed a divine sculptor

In his garden planted with vines,
Loving the beautiful as well,
Was kneaded noble lines
Olympian your face.

Your light and fierce beard
Fell, silky, tapering,
To frame your beautiful mouth
As red as a bloody fruit,

And as the Zeus of the ancient ode
Contemplating the eternal duties
Your hair Ambrosian
Streamed in shiny black waves.

On your broad face austere
What sweetness, but what contempt
For all the earth rattles
Which is attached price!

Rhetoricians to lofty approaches
Building a deep nothingness,
And leaning towards the fountains
To fill urns bottomless;

Speakers devoured by fever,
In the shameless crossroads
Kissing their lips burning
Popularity The ignoble;

Lovers of gold, rotten wounds,
Monnoyant anguish and tears,
Pale, and counting coins
In the night, like thieves;

Don Juans inept romance,
Under its golden rags, in broad daylight,
Adoring all, in their madness,
The painted spectrum of Love;

Masters of Odes vibrant,
Resigning himself to bitter laughter
For more fickle crowds
Fleeing the flood of the sea;

O shepherd of countless rhythms,
As you looked at these crazy
Fierce in the shadow of a shadow
With a thoughtful and sweet air,

You who sat under a tree
Complaining deer at bay!
You, the lover of nymphs marble
And spring in the woods,

Who gave the vile wealth
And all their gold hardware
For a bitter verse of Aeschylus,
Terrible flying in the sky!

Thou in thy heart invincible,
Had no other dream star
That read the bible high
And see in the sky closed!

You who, in your honest candor,
Smiled, ignoring evil,
And who would fill your large glass
With the wine of the Ideal!

IV

Reprove them, that divine smile
And the glass where your lips end,
Because the hour to tell you,
Master not: Farewell, but: Hi.

Yes, you are welcome, poet,
Among those appointed his
The Muse that was their conquest;
Because you do not go away, you just!

Proud of your reputation which you boast,
You come to posterity,
Having on your living lip
The inescapable truth

And in thine hand mysterious
Providing, winner of the tomb,
Any victorious work
Where shines the splendor of beauty!

The feast of poetry,
Where each, raising her bare arm
Drinking nectar and ambrosia,
O singer, you are welcome!

You who, like Veronese,
Among the satins and flowers,
Do shine in your furnace
Women with beautiful colors!

You who, in a time floundering,
We do think the chorus dance.
Leaping on the Taygetos
With your dazzling to!

You who learned to boldness,
Can, as Myron and Scyllis,
Cut image of Goddesses
In the same marble lily!

Give you that extra prose
Sustainable and charming prism
Through which a flash of pink,
And polished diamond!

Thou pour thy hand full
Any rich bloom!
Last son of singer Helen!
Soul, wisdom, wit, reason,

Lover of beauty, truth, justice,
Prevails among the gods of art
Come and take your place august
Between Rabelais and Ronsard!