Far from birds, from herds, from village girls,
I used to drink, squatting in some heather
Surrounded by tender woods of hazel trees,
By a warm green afternoon vapor.
What could I drink from this young Oise,
Voiceless elms, flowerless lawn, overcast sky.
What was I pulling from the colocase gourd?
Some golden liquor, insipid and sweaty.
As such, I would have made a bad inn sign.
Then the storm altered the sky until sundown.
It was black country, lakes, poles,
Columns beneath blue night, railway stations.
The water of the woods vanished over virgin sands,
The wind pitched icicles from the sky into the ponds...
Well! like a fisherman for gold or shells,
To say that I had no trouble drinking!
Teardrop
Far from the village girls, cattle, birds,
I drank, kneeling down in the heather
Surrounded by tender copses of hazel,
In the green warm mist of afternoon.
What could I have drunk from that young Oise,
Elms without voices, turf without flowers,
Shut sky? Or sip from the gourd of the vine?
Some liquor of gold that causes pale sweats.
Like that I’d have made a poor inn-sign.
Then storms altered the sky till evening.
Black landscapes, poles, lakes, colonnades
under the blueness of night, rail-stations.
Wood’s water was lost in virgin sand.
The wind, out of heaven, iced the ponds...
But, like fishers for gold or shells, to think
That I didn’t take the trouble to drink!
