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Dans la terre de Flandres poussent les coquelicots
This is the French Version you may switch to the original
English version
E
ntre les croix, qui rang par rang,
marquent notre place; et dans le ciel,
les alouettes, chantant encore avec ardeur, volent
A peine audibles au dessus de la voix des canons.
N
ous sommes les Morts. Peu de jours avant
Nous vivions, sentions l'aube, voyions le soleil couchant
Nous aimions, étions aimés; maintenant nous gisons
Dans la terre de Flandres.
E
pousez notre combat contre l'ennemi:
A vous de nos mains défaillantes, nous lançons
La flamme; A vous de la brandir bien haut.
Si vous brisez ce serment d'avec nous qui mourrons
N
ous ne dormirons plus quand poussent les coquelicots
Dans la terre de Flandres.
John McCrae Trad: M.y.Beauchamp
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Ceci est la version Anglaise originale.
Vous pouvez lire ma traduction en version
Française
Ne marche qu'avec MSIE 4
B
etween the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
W
e are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
T
ake up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
W
e shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
by John McCrae
La Route jamais prise
This is the French Version you may switch to the original
English version
D
eux routes divergaient dans un bois glauque
Et désolé de ne pouvoir suivre les deux,
Voyageur solitaire, longtemps je méditais.
Et du regard, sondais aussi loin que possible
Vers là ou tournait l'une au milieu des buissons;
A
lors j'ai suivi l'autre justement ,pourquoi non,
Elle avait peut être meilleure apparence
Car elle était herbeuse et voulait qu'on la foule;
Bien qu'apparamment, les passants
les avaient toutes deux piétinées également.
E
lles s'étendaient toutes deux au matin
Dans les feuilles aucun pas n'était marqué de noir.
Oh! J'ai continué sur le premier tout le jour
Sachant déjà que cheminer pousse à poursuivre
Je doutais de pouvoir jamais revenir.
J
e le dirai en soupirant
Quelquepart il y a déjà des ages;
Deux routes divergeaient dans un bois et
J'ai pris la moins fréquentée.
Et cela a fait toute la différence
by Robert Frost
A Road Not Taken
Ceci est la version Anglaise originale.
Vous pouvez lire ma traduction en version
Française
Ne marche qu'avec MSIE 4
T
wo roads diverged in a yellow wood.
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood.
And looked down one as far as I could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;
T
hen took the other, as just, as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
A
nd both that morning equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way;
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I
shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference
by Robert Frost
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The Stolen child
W
here dips the rocky highland,
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid out faery vats,
Full of berries
And the reddest stolen cherries.
C
ome away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
W
here the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
C
ome away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
W
here the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
C
ome away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
A
way with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
F
or he comes, the human child,
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.
by W.B. Yeats
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