Alphonse de Lamartine Geoffrey Barto Poetic Meditations Geoffrey Barto 2002 Often upon the mountain, in the shade of the old oak tree With the setting of the sun, I sadly take a seat; My gaze shifts haphazardly as I stare across the plain The ever-changing scenery unfolding at my feet. Here the river rumbles, crashing waves of foam, It snakes along and disappears in a far-off land There the lake so still spreads out its sleeping waters Where the evening star rises in the blue. At the summits of the mountains crowned with somber woods, Still the setting sun casts its final ray, And the hazy chariot of the queen of shadows Rises, already bleaching the horizon's end. However flying up from a Gothic spire A most religious sound comes to fill the air, The traveler stops, and the rustic bell Mixes its holy concert with the day's last sounds. But at the sight of these sweet scenes My indifferent soul knows neither charm nor joy, I contemplate the earth, but a wondering shadow: The sun that warms the living warms the dead no more. From hill to hill I cast my gaze in vain, From the South to the North, from sunrise to sunset, Everywhere I look across the great expanse, And I tell myself: Nowhere does happiness await me. What to me are these valleys, these palaces, these cottages? Mere objects that for me no longer hold their charm; Rivers, rocks and forests, solitary spots so dear, One person missing to you, and all life goes away. Whether the sun's path should begin or end, With an indifferent eye I will follow its course; In a dark sky or bright, should it fall or it rise, What use the sun? I expect nothing from the unfolding days. Were I able to follow it in its long course, My eyes would see nothingness, desertedness; Nought I desire upon which it could shine, I ask for nothing from the universe immense. But beyond the limits of this sphere perhaps, Places where the true sun shines upon other skies, If I could leave my wasted self on earth, Could that of which I dream appear to my eyes? There, I would be intoxicated by the spring that I seek, There, I would find once more love and hope, And that ideal goodness that every soul desires, And which is without name in our earthly journey. What could I not do, carried on dawn's chariot, Faint object of my desires, cast me straight to you, Upon the earth in exile why do I remain? There is nothing left between the earth and me. When a leaf from the wood in the prairie falls, The evening wind comes up and carries it off to the valleys; And I, I am like the withered leaf: As with it, carry me off, stormy winds of the south!