The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

PAUL VALÉRY

A stalk in wind that wanders and is still
Bows with a proud salute of starry grace,
Promising its rose to the ancient wheel.

And still the sleeper spins a single thread,
For a mysterious shadow, braided with the yarn
Of her long sleeping fingers, is spun.

Her dream unwinds, as on a gentle spindle
That caresses as it rolls around
Unendingly, and with the ease of angels.

The deep blue pales beyond so many blossoms.
Beyond the spinner’s belt of leaves and light,
The sky, now green, darkens. The last tree flames.

The saint, your sister, smiles in the rose-window,
Perfumes your dazed forehead with her innocent breath,
And you wither, growing faint in the twilight,

Near the casement, where you sat spinning.
—grace schulman

The Oarsman

to André Lebey

Leaning against a strong river, my infinite stroke
Pulls me reluctant from the pleasant shores,
My hands heavy, weighed down by the oars.
The sky must yield to the slow tolling of blades.

My heart is hardened to the beauty I cleave,
The circles of waves blossoming around me,
I will my wide strokes to break the bright world
Of leaves and of fire, and sing them in quiet.

I pass over trees and full-patterned
Water painted with foliage, finally peace,
And tear them apart, imprint on them a pleat,
Hasten to end the memory of that calm.