Victor Marie Hugo
Victor Marie Hugo (French pronunciation: [viktɔʁ maʁi yɡo]; was a French poet, novelist, and dramatist. He is considered one of the most well-known French Romantic writers. In France, Hugo's literary fame comes first from his poetry but also rests upon his novels and his dramatic achievements. Among many volumes of poetry, Les Contemplations and La Légende des siècles stand particularly high in critical esteem. Outside France, his best-known works are the novels Les Misérables, 1862, and Notre-Dame de Paris, 1831 (known in English as The Hunchback of Notre-Dame).
Though a committed royalist when he was young, Hugo's views changed as the decades passed; he became a passionate ... more »
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Victor Marie Hugo Poems
The Genesis of the Butterfly
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
Demain, dès l'aube...
Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends. J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
More Strong Than Time
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;
I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens, Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens, In numerous leafage bosomed close; Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
The Grave and The Rose
The Grave said to the Rose, "What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?" "And what of spirits flown,
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight made his pallet on the threshing floor where all day he had worked, and now he slept among the bushels of threshed wheat.
A Fleeting Glimpse Of A Village
How graceful the picture! the life, the repose! The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
A ma fille Adèle
Tout enfant, tu dormais près de moi, rose et fraîche, Comme un petit Jésus assoupi dans sa crèche ; Ton pur sommeil était si calme et si charmant
A la fenêtre, pendant la nuit
Les étoiles, points d'or, percent les branches noires ; Le flot huileux et lourd décompose ses moires Sur l'océan blêmi ;
A ma fille
O mon enfant, tu vois, je me soumets. Fais comme moi : vis du monde éloignée ; Heureuse ? non ; triomphante ? jamais. -- Résignée ! --
A la France
Personne pour toi. Tous sont d'accord. Celui-ci, Nommé Gladstone, dit à tes bourreaux : merci !
A la belle impérieuse
L'amour, panique De la raison, Se communique Par le frisson.
A celle qui est voilée
Tu me parles du fond d'un rêve Comme une âme parle aux vivants. Comme l'écume de la grève, Ta robe flotte dans les vents.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Genesis of the Butterfly
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May...