French poetry is over a thousand years old. It is as old a few years as the French language.
The richness of French Romantic poetry is incomparable: There is no other language which offers through the centuries such an abundance and such a height of inspiration, such a variety of genres and forms, expressed by so many geniuses brilliant, such great poets.
We offer you some poems by great French poets: Victor Hugo, Paul Verlaine, Alfred de Musset, Arthur Rimbaud.
Love poems of French poets
Collection: Les Odes. (Original version)
Sweetheart let see if the Rose
Who this morning had opened
Her purple dress in the Sun,
Point lost this vesper
The folds of her purple dress,
And his complexion like yours.
The ace ! see as in little space,
Cute, she has the place
The ace ! weary its beauties dropped!
O really stepmother Nature,
Since such a flower does not last
Only from morning until evening!
So if you believe me, cute,
As your age blooms
In its greenest novelty,
Pick, pick your youth:
As with this flower old age
Will tarnish your beauty..
Collection: First book of loves.
Love kills me, and if I don’t mean
The pleasant evil it is for me to die:
I’m so afraid that we want to rescue
Evil, by which I gently sigh.
It is very true, that my languor desires
That over time I can heal myself:
But I don’t want my lady to demand
For my health: I like my martyrdom so much.
Shut up languor I feel the day come,
May my mistress, after such a long stay,
Seeing the care that eats away at my thought,
A whole night, madly having me
In his arms, prodigal, will pay
The Willow Poem:
This poem by the French poet Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) is taken from the collection of Early Poems.
Pale evening star, distant messenger,
Whose forehead shines brightly from the sails of the sunset,
From your azure palace, in the firmament,
What are you looking at in the plain?
The storm is fading, and the winds have subsided.
The trembling forest cries over the heather;
The golden moth, in its light course,
Cross the embalmed meadows.
What are you looking for on the sleeping earth?
But already towards the mountains I see you lowering yourself;
You run away, smiling, melancholy friend,
And your trembling gaze is about to fade.
Star descending towards the green hill,
Sad silver tear from the mantle of the Night,
You look at the shepherd in the distance,
As his long herd follows him step by step,
Star, where are you going, in this immense night?
Are you looking on the shore for a bed in the reeds?
Where are you going so beautiful, in the hour of silence,
Fall like a pearl in the depths of the waters?
Poem The Love of Lying:
This poem by French poet Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) is taken from the collection Les fleurs du mal.
When I see you pass, my dear indolent,
At the song of the instruments breaking on the ceiling
Suspending your harmonious and slow pace,
And walking boredom with your deep gaze;
When I contemplate, at the fires of the gas which colors it,
Your pale forehead, embellished by a morbid attraction,
Where the evening torches light an aurora,
And your attractive eyes like those of a portrait,
I say to myself: How beautiful she is! and oddly cool!
The massive, royal and heavy tower memory,
The crown, and its heart, bruised like a peach,
Is ripe, like his body, for the learned love.
Paul Verlaine 1844-1896
Are you the autumn fruit with sovereign flavors?
Are you a funeral vase waiting for some tears,
Perfume that dreams of distant oases,
Caressing pillow, or basket of flowers?
I know there are eyes, most melancholy
Who do not conceal precious secrets;
Beautiful cases without jewels, medallions without relics,
Empty, deeper than yourself, O Heavens!
But isn’t it enough that you are the appearance,
On your young breast let my head roll
All sound still of your last kisses;
Let it calm down from the good storm,
And let me sleep a little since you are resting.
Le dormeur du val – Poem Arthur Rimbaud:
A poem extracted from the poetry collection of Arthur Rimbaud born October 20, 1854.
It is a green hollow where a river sings,
Madly clinging to grass rags
Silver ; where the sun, from the proud mountain,
Luit: it is a small valley which foam of rays.
A young soldier, open mouth, bare head,
And the neck bathed in the fresh blue cress,
Sleeps; he is lying in the grass, under the cloud,
Pale in his green bed where the light rains.
Feet in gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling like
A sick child would die, he naps:
Nature, rock it warmly: it is cold.
Perfumes do not make your nostril shiver;
He sleeps in the sun, hand on his chest,
Quiet. There are two red holes on the right side.
These two poems on the theme of love are the work of Arthur Rimbaud and are also extracted from the poetry collection.
On the blue summer evenings, I will go on the trails,
Tingled by the wheat, treading on the small grass:
Dreamer, I will feel the freshness at my feet.
I let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will not think anything:
But infinite love will rise to my soul,
And I will go far, far away, like a gypsy,
By Nature – happy as with a woman.
2- Good morning thought:
At four in the morning in the summer,
The sleep of love still lasts.
Under the groves dawn evaporates
The smell of the celebrated evening.
But there in the huge building site
Towards the Hesperides sun,
Oh Queen of the Shepherds!
Brings brandy to workers,
So that their forces may be at peace
While waiting for the swim in the sea, at noon.
Love poem for women
I want to dedicate this poem
To all the women we love
For a few secret moments
To those we hardly know
That a different destiny leads
And that you never find.
To the one we see appearing
One second at his window
And who swiftly passes out
But whose slender silhouette
Is so graceful and thin
Let it remain fulfilled.
To the traveling companion
Whose eyes, charming landscape
Make the path seem short
That we are alone, perhaps, to understand
And yet let it go down
Without touching his hand.
To those who are already taken
And who, living gray hours
Almost too different
You have, useless madness,
Let see the melancholy
Of a hopeless future.
To these shy lovers
Who remained silent
And still mourn
To those who have gone
Far from you, sad lonely
Victims of stupid pride.
Your angel face and your sublime body
your pretty words full of promise
hid all the pain from me
what is it to love you
You taught me to love you
but not to forget you.
You can do whatever you want
from my heart throw it burn it
torture him but be careful
you are inside.
I wanted to be a blue bird
a fire bird a travel bird
a passing bird but I am
hold on here or I’m wasting my life.