Tandis que les crachats rouges de la mitraille
Sifflent tout le jour par l’infini du ciel bleu ;
Qu’écarlates ou verts, près du Roi qui les raille,
Croulent les bataillons en masse dans le feu ;
Tandis qu’une folie épouvantable broie
Et fait de cent milliers d’hommes un tas fumant ;
– Pauvres morts ! dans l’été, dans l’herbe, dans ta joie,
Nature ! ô toi qui fis ces hommes saintement !…
– Il est un Dieu, qui rit aux nappes damassées
Des autels, à l’encens, aux grands calices d’or ;
Qui dans le bercement des hosannah s’endort,
Et se réveille, quand des mères, ramassées
Dans l’angoisse, et pleurant sous leur vieux bonnet noir,
Lui donnent un gros sou lié dans leur mouchoir !
Locations in Harold's Library
- The New Oxford Book of War Poetry (book) with the title "Evil" (en)
- Credits: Robert Lowell (translator)
- First line: All day the red spit of the chain-shot tore ©
- Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters (book) with the title "Evil" (en)
- page 66
- Credits: Wallace Fowlie (translator)
- First line: While the red spit of grapeshot ©
- Robert Lowell: Collected Poems (book) with the title "Evil" (en)
- page 268
- in "Imitations (1961): Eighteen-Seventy, 8"
- Credits: Robert Lowell (translator)
- First line: All day the red spit of the chain-shot tore ©
- The Faber Book of War Poetry (book) with the title "Evil" (en)
- in "Gods and Spirits of Warfare"
- Credits: Norman Cameron (translator)
- First line: Whilst the red spittle of the grape-shot sings ©
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