Sur la Mer

Il y a des soupirs éternels tout autour
Des rivages désolés, et avec sa puissante houle
Qui inonde deux fois dix mille cavernes, jusqu'à ce que l'incantation
D'Hecate leur laisse leur vieux son sombre.

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
That scaresly will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where is sometimes fell,
When last the winds of heaven where unbound.

Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,
Feast upon the wideness of the sea -
Oh ye! Whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody -
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth and brood,
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired.

John Keats

See the Quenya version

Back to the index