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Victor Marie Hugo

(26 February 1802 – 22 May 1885 / Besancon / France)

A Jeanne


Je suis triste ; le sort est dur ; tout meurt, tout passe ;
Les êtres innocents marchent dans de la nuit ;
Tu n'en sais rien ; tu ris d'écouter dans l'espace
Ce qui chante et de voir ce qui s'épanouit ;

Toi, tu ne connais pas le destin ; tu chuchotes
On ne sait quoi devant l'Ignoré ; tu souris
Devant l'effarement des sombres don Quichottes
Et devant la sueur des pâles Jésus-Christs.

Tu ne sais pas pourquoi je songe, pourquoi tombe
Kesler à Guernesey, Ribeyrolle au Brésil ;
Jeanne, tu ne sais pas ce que c'est que la tombe,
Jeanne, tu ne sais pas ce que c'est que l'exil.

Certes, si je pensais que j'assombris ton âme,
Je ne te dirais point toutes ces choses-là ;
Mais, vois-tu, bien qu'avril dore à sa pure flamme
Ton front, que Dieu pour moi tout exprès étoila,

Quoique le ciel ait l'aube et mon coeur ton sourire,
Jeanne, la vie est morne, et l'on gémit parfois ;
Puisque tu n'as qu'un an, je puis bien tout te dire,
Tu comprends seulement la douceur de ma voix.

Submitted: Saturday, April 03, 2010

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