The Swan
Without sound, under the mirror of the lake deep and calm,
The swan hunts the waves with its large webbed feet
And glides. Its downy sides resemble
April snow melting in the sun;
But, firm and of matt white, vibrant in the zephyr breeze,
Its large wings spread just like a sailing boat.
He raises his beautiful neck above the reeds,
Diving, proceeding rising over the waters,
Its gracious curve like a profile of Acanthus,
And hides his black beak in his sparkling throat.
Soon along the pines, staying in the shade and peace,
He glides, and, letting the dense grass
Drag behind him like a comet's tail,
He walks with a stately and languishing allure;
The grotto, where the poet listens drawn by his senses
And by waters evoking tears of an eternal absence,
Pleases him: he prowls there; a willow leaf
Falling in silence brushing his shoulders;
Soon, he takes to the open air, and, far from the dark wood,
Superb, striking toward the sky,
He chooses to display his celebrated whiteness,
Dazzling at the place where the sun can admire him.
Then, when the banks of the waters are no longer distinguishable,
At the time when all form is a confused spectre,
Where the horizon turns brown, with a long red streak,
Then, when neither rush nor gladiolus stir,
So that the tree-frogs croak in the serene air
And when the glow worm shines in the moonlight,
The bird in the dark lake, where beneath is reflected
The splendour of a milk white and violet night,
Like a silver vase among diamonds
Sleeps, head under its wing, between two firmaments.
poem by Sully Prudhomme, translated by David Paley
Added by Dan Costinaş
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