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Le jet d'eau • The
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The English version presented below is a literal, word-for-word translation. It attempts to preserve the poet's word order as far as possible, for a better appreciation of the composer's musical treatment of individual words and phrases. Download track from iTunes. Corinne Orde & Jonathan Cohen - Fauré & Debussy: Bonne Chanson, Belle Époque


Tes beaux yeux sont las, pauvre amante!
Reste longtemps sans les rouvrir,
Dans cette pose nonchalante
Où t’a surprise le plaisir.


Dans la cour le jet d’eau qui jase
Et ne se tait ni nuit ni jour,
Entretient doucement l’extase
Où ce soir m’a plongé l’amour.

 

La gerbe d’eau qui berce
Ses mille fleurs,
Que la lune traverse
De ses pâleurs,
Tombe comme une averse
De larges pleurs.

 

Ainsi ton âme qu’incendie
L’éclair brulant des voluptés,
S’élance, rapide et hardie,
Vers les vastes cieux enchantés.


Puis, elle s’épanche, mourante
En un flot de triste langueur,
Qui par une invisible pente
Descend jusqu’au fond de mon coeur.

 

O toi, que la nuit rend si belle,
Qu’il m’est doux, penché vers tes seins,
D’écouter la plainte éternelle
Qui sanglote dans les bassins!


Lune, eau sonore, nuit bénie,
Arbres qui frissonnez autour, -
Votre pure mélancolie
Est le miroir de mon amour.

 

Charles Baudelaire


Your pretty eyes are tired, poor love!
Stay a long time without re-opening them,
In that nonchalant pose
In which pleasure surprised you.


Out in the courtyard the chattering fountain
Which never falls silent, night or day,
Is gently prolonging the ecstasy
Into which love has plunged me this evening.

 

The sheaf of water which rocks
Its thousand flowers,
And which the moon
Traverses with its pale beams,
Falls like a shower
Of large teardrops.

 

And thus your soul, set ablaze
By the burning flash of voluptuousness,
Rears up, rapid and bold,
Towards the vast enchanted skies.


Then it spreads out, dying,
In a flow of sad languor
Which, down an invisible slope,
Descends into the bottom of my heart.

 

Oh you, whom the night renders so beautiful,
How sweet it is, as I lean over your breasts,
To listen to the eternal plaint
Of the sobbing in the fountain-basins!


Moon, sonorous water, blessed night,
Trees that tremble all around,
Your pure melancholy
Is the mirror of my love.

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