A new translation from Jason Kuznicki. As I've noted previously, Rostand's lyric poetry doesn't appear ever to have been translated into English before.
Without it you are naught; your light escapes
But does no good; it is your will, as you
for it are supple, soft, and golden soul.
And thus I coif you in a narrow shade,
Just a cardboard cone, without festoon,
But see how from it springs a cone of light!
It forms the circle on my table where
In amber clarity I summon forth
The many dreams that float about the room.
Around the cone’s transparent wall they turn,
The haggard monsters come to make the rounds.
Most stop, and sniff the trap, and then move on.
But some drew near the pretty yellow snare
Whose center is the copper of your foot.
And these were caught the moment they arrived.
On paper at your copper foot they fell,
These dreams in full! And there they wait until
We call them back and make them live again.
Beneath your shade, in silence and unarmed
A mysterious field of holy war
Is joined, and gilded, trembling and restrained.
Come, lamp, let us set forth, and let our fires
Be wisely kept in check! So may you on
This table set the humbly marvelous ring!
The circle clears, we wait for all to sleep,
Then when they do, let Thought contend with Form
And grapple in that ring of gold.
We live to pull from shadow into light
Our dreams. Or two or three, at least, I guess.
And either way, it is for this we die.
That crowns on heads, bestowed by sudden gods
May in the end be nothing grander than
The humble halo from a shaded lamp.
[“A la même, en la coiffant de son abat-jour,” from Les Musardises.]
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