"A Fragrance of Night" by Léon-Paul Fargue
A fragrance of night, not to be defined, that brings on an obscure doubt, exquisite, tender, comes by the open window into the room where I am at work.
My cat watches the darkness, as rigid as a jug. A fortune of subtle seeing looks at me through its green eyes…
The lamp sings its slight song quietly, subdued as the song one hears in a shell.
The lamp reaches out its placating hands. In its aureole, I hear the litanies, the choruses and the responses of flies. It lights up the flowers at the edge of the terrace. The nearest ones come forward timidly to see me, like a troop of dwarfs that discover an ogre…
The minute violin of a mosquito goes on and on. One could believe that a person was playing alone in a house at a remote distance… Insects fall with a sidewise fall and writhe gently on the table. A butterfly yellow as a wisp of straw drags itself along the little yellow valley that is my book…
A big clock outdoors intones drearily. Memories take motion like children dancing in a ring…
The cat stretches itself to the uttermost. Its nose traces in the air an imperceptible evolution. A fly fastens its scissors in the lamp…
Kitchen clatter mounts in a back-yard. Argumentative voices play at pigeonvole.
A carriage starts up and away. A train chugs at the next station. A long whistle rises far-off…
I think of someone whom I love, who is so little to be so separated, perhaps beyond the lands covered by the night, beyond the profundities of water. I am able to engage her glance…
My cat watches the darkness, as rigid as a jug. A fortune of subtle seeing looks at me through its green eyes…
The lamp sings its slight song quietly, subdued as the song one hears in a shell.
The lamp reaches out its placating hands. In its aureole, I hear the litanies, the choruses and the responses of flies. It lights up the flowers at the edge of the terrace. The nearest ones come forward timidly to see me, like a troop of dwarfs that discover an ogre…
The minute violin of a mosquito goes on and on. One could believe that a person was playing alone in a house at a remote distance… Insects fall with a sidewise fall and writhe gently on the table. A butterfly yellow as a wisp of straw drags itself along the little yellow valley that is my book…
A big clock outdoors intones drearily. Memories take motion like children dancing in a ring…
The cat stretches itself to the uttermost. Its nose traces in the air an imperceptible evolution. A fly fastens its scissors in the lamp…
Kitchen clatter mounts in a back-yard. Argumentative voices play at pigeonvole.
A carriage starts up and away. A train chugs at the next station. A long whistle rises far-off…
I think of someone whom I love, who is so little to be so separated, perhaps beyond the lands covered by the night, beyond the profundities of water. I am able to engage her glance…
(Translated by Wallace Stevens)
Léon-Paul Fargue was a French poet and essayist. He was born in Paris, France on rue Coquilliére. As a poet he was noted for his poetry of atmosphere and detail. His work spanned numerous literary movements. Wikipedia
Born: March 4, 1876, 1st arrondissement, Paris, France
Died: November 24, 1947, 6th arrondissement of Paris, Paris, France
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