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The Bell Ringer (Le Sonneur)

While the bell awakens its voice clear and bright
To the pure deep air of the morning time,
Passing over a child who pours out in delight
An Angelus amid lavender and thyme,

The ringer, brushed by a bird brought to light,
Plods sadly and, mumbling a Latin rhyme
On the stone that stretches the old cord tight,
Hears only the tinkling of a far-off chime.

I myself am that man. For alas! when I pull
On anxious night’s rope to sound the Ideal,
Cold sins flaunt their faithful plumes in disdain

And the voice comes only as a hollow moan!
But one day, sick from having pulled in vain,
I’ll hang myself, Satan, removing the stone.

poem by Stephane Mallarme (15 March 1862), translated by Henry Weinfield
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