Isolation

Often on the mountain, in the shade of the old oak,
At sunset, sadly I sit down;
I walk randomly at the plain,
Whose changing picture unfolds at my feet.

Here roars the river foaming waves;
It winds, and sinks into a distant obscure;
There the motionless lake extends its still waters
Where the evening star rises in the azure.

At the top of these mountains crowned with dark woods,
The twilight still throws a last ray;
And the vaporous chariot of the queen of shadows
Monte, and already bleaches the edges of the horizon.

However, leaping from the Gothic spire,
A religious sound spreads in the air:
The traveler stops, and the rustic bell
At the last noises of the day mixes holy concerts.

But to these sweet paintings my soul indifferent
Feel no charm or transport before them;
I contemplate the earth and a wandering shadow
The sun of the living no longer warms the dead.

From hill to hill in vain carrying my sight,
From the south to the aquilon, from dawn to sunset,
I go through all the points of the immense expanse,
And I say, "Nowhere is happiness waiting for me."

What do these little valleys, palaces, and cottages do for me?
Vain objects which for me the charm is gone?
Rivers, rocks, forests, solitudes so dear,
One being misses you, and everything is depopulated!

Whether the sun's turn begins or ends,
With an indifferent eye I follow him in his class;
In a dark or pure sky that he lies down or gets up,
What does the sun matter? I do not wait for days.

When I could follow him in his vast career,
My eyes would see emptiness and deserts everywhere:
I desire nothing of all that he enlightens;
I do not ask anything about the huge universe.

But perhaps beyond the limits of his sphere,
Places where the true sun illuminates other skies,
If I could leave my body to the ground,
What I dreamed so much would seem to me!

There, I would get drunk at the source where I aspire;
There, I would find again and hope and love,
And this ideal good that every soul desires,
And who does not have a name for the terrestrial stay!

What can I not, carried on the chariot of Dawn,
Wave object of my wishes, to go up to you!
On the land of exile, why did I remain?
There is nothing in common between the earth and me.

When the leaf of the woods falls in the meadow,
The evening wind rises and tears it from the valleys;
And I am like the withered leaf:
Take me away like her, stormy aquilons!

--- Lamartine

Published: 1820
Author: Alphonse de Lamartine
Collection: Poetic Méditations