I want, in order to chastely compose my eclogue,
To sleep close to the sky, like an astronomer,
And, near the steeples to listen in reverie
To the solemn hymns blown away by the wind.
Both hands at the chin, high in my attic
I will see the studio which sings and gossips;
The hoses, the steeples, these flags of the city,
And these grand skies that make one dream of eternity.
It is soft, through the haze, of seeing the birth
Of stars in the ether, the lamps in the window
The rivers of coal ascend to the firmament
And the moon pours out its pallid enchantment.
I will see spring, summer, and fall
And when winter comes in dreary snow,
I will shut ever door and shutter
In order to build in the night my magical palace.
Then I will dream of bluish horizons,
Of gardens, of springs of water crying into alabaster,
Of kisses, of birds singing morning and evening,
And all this that the Idle has most childlike.
Riot, storming vainly at my window,
Will not make me raise my brow from my desk;
Because I will be plunged into this delight
From invoking the Spring with my will,
From pulling the sun with my heart, and making
Of my burning thoughts a tepid atmosphere.