In the glad revels, in the happy fêtes,
    When cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled
With the sweet wine of France that concentrates
    The sunshine and the beauty of the world,

Drink sometimes, you whose footsteps yet may tread
    The undisturbed, delightful paths of Earth,
To those whose blood, in pious duty shed,
    Hallows the soil where that same wine had birth.

Here, by devoted comrades laid away,
    Along our lines they slumber where they fell,
Beside the crater at the Ferme d’Alger
    And up the bloody slopes of La Pompelle,

And round the city whose cathedral towers
    The enemies of Beauty dared profane,
And in the mat of multicolored flowers
    That clothe the sunny chalk-fields of Champagne.

Under the little crosses where they rise
    The soldier rests. Now round him undismayed
The cannon thunders, and at night he lies
    At peace beneath the eternal fusillade ...

That other generations might possess—
    From shame and menace free in years to come—
A richer heritage of happiness,
    He marched to that heroic martyrdom.

Esteeming less the forfeit that he paid
    Than undishonored that his flag might float
Over the towers of liberty, he made
    His breast the bulwark and his blood the moat.

Obscurely sacrificed, his nameless tomb,
    Bare of the sculptor’s art, the poet’s lines,
Summer shall flush with poppy-fields in bloom,
    And Autumn yellow with maturing vines.

There the grape-pickers at their harvesting
    Shall lightly tread and load their wicker trays,
Blessing his memory as they toil and sing
    In the slant sunshine of October days ...

I love to think that if my blood should be
    So privileged to sink where his has sunk,
I shall not pass from Earth entirely,
    But when the banquet rings, when healths are drunk,

And faces that the joys of living fill
    Glow radiant with laughter and good cheer,
In beaming cups some spark of me shall still
    Brim toward the lips that once I held so dear.

So shall one coveting no higher plane
    Than nature clothes in color and flesh and tone,
Even from the grave put upward to attain
    The dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known;

And that strong need that strove unsatisfied
    Toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore,
Not death itself shall utterly divide
    From the belovèd shapes it thirsted for.

Alas, how many an adept for whose arms
    Life held delicious offerings perished here,
How many in the prime of all that charms,
    Crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear!

Honor them not so much with tears and flowers,
    But you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies,
Where in the anguish of atrocious hours
    Turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes,

Rather when music on bright gatherings lays
    Its tender spell, and joy is uppermost,
Be mindful of the men they were, and raise
    Your glasses to them in one silent toast.

Drink to them—amorous of dear Earth as well,
    They asked no tribute lovelier than this—
And in the wine that ripened where they fell,
    Oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss.


Champagne, France, July, 1915.



This poem is in the public domain. 

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

From Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, translated and edited by Louis Simpson, published by Story Line Press, Inc. Copyright © 1997 by Louis Simpson. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press, Inc. All rights reserved.

Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?

This poem is in the public domain.