Été (1942) Summer (1942

SUMMER (1942)

À Francis Vielé-Griffin.

SUMMER, rock of pure air, and you, blazing hive, O sea! Scattered into a thousand flies upon The tufts of a flesh as cool as from a pitcher, And even in the mouth where buzzes the blue sky.

And you, fiery dwelling-place, immense Space, dear Space Tranquil, where the tree steams and loses a few birds, Where infinitely breaks the murmur of the mass Of the sea, of the march and the troops of the waters,

Weights of odours, great ripples from the happy races On the gulf which consumes and which mounts to the sun, Pure nests, sluices of grass, shadows of hollow waves, Cradle the child ravished in a fretful slumber.

In the skies there vainly thunders a blaze of matter, If it kindles the seas, if it consumes the mountains, If it pours forth upon life a torrent of light And has all the demons whinnying in our hearts,

You, on the tender sand which the wave abandones, Where its power of tears loses all its diamonds, You relaxed with ennui at a world of wonders, Virgin deaf to clamours of eternal elements,

You shut up in yourself, clasping your young bosom, Soul entirely in love with its own little night, Because these pure tumults, this mad star that forges The crude gold of events idiotic as noise,

Make you kiss the breasts of your ephemeral being, Cherish this trifle of flesh like a young animal And victim and disdain of the bitter splendour Pamper the sweet pride of self-love like an evil

Girl exposed to the gods which the Ocean spangles With foam that it snatches from mirrors of the sun, To universal games your mortal being prefers, All things of shadow and love, your island of sleep.

Meanwhile high heaven strikes down the human hour, Monster thirsting for time, immolating the future, The Sacrificer Sun rolls on and repossesses Day after day on its altars of azure sky…

But the legs (of which the one is cool and released From the one more rosy), the shoulders, the hard breast, The arms that are mingling with the foamy cheek Are abandoned shining in the obscure bowl

Where there filters loud sounds full of the beasts drawn up In the cages of leaves and the nets of the sea By the maritime mills and the rose-coloured huts Of day … All the skin gilds the arbours of the air.