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    Ophelia-Arthur Rimbaud

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    Ivana NIkolic
    A poem by Arthur Rimbaud a symbolist.The poem in the form of a sonnet it describes the death of Ophelia(character from Shakespare's Hamlet).

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Ophelia-Arthur Rimbaud

    Uploaded by

    Ivana NIkolic
    1K views4 pages
    A poem by Arthur Rimbaud a symbolist.The poem in the form of a sonnet it describes the death of Ophelia(character from Shakespare's Hamlet).

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    © Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)

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    A poem by Arthur Rimbaud a symbolist.The poem in the form of a sonnet it describes the death of Ophelia(character from Shakespare's Hamlet).

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    1K views4 pages

    Ophelia-Arthur Rimbaud

    Uploaded by

    Ivana NIkolic
    A poem by Arthur Rimbaud a symbolist.The poem in the form of a sonnet it describes the death of Ophelia(character from Shakespare's Hamlet).

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
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    Ophelia

    On the calm black water where the stars are sleepingWhite


    Ophelia floats like a great lily;Floats very slowly, lying in her long
    veils...- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

    For more than a thousand years sad OpheliaHas passed, a white


    phantom, down the long black river.For more than a thousand
    years her sweet madnessHas murmured its ballad to the evening
    breeze.

    The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreathHer great


    veils rising and falling with the waters;The shivering willows
    weep on her shoulder,The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming
    brow.

    The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;At times she


    rouses, in a slumbering alder,Some nest from which escapes a
    small rustle of wings;- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden
    stars.
    II

    O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!Yes child, you died, carried off


    by a river!- It was the winds descending from the great
    mountains of NorwayThat spoke to you in low voices of better
    freedom.

    It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,Brought


    strange rumors to your dreaming mind;It was your heart listening
    to the song of NatureIn the groans of the tree and the sighs of
    the nights;

    It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,That shattered your
    child's heart, too human and too soft;It was a handsome pale
    knight, a poor madmanWho one April morning sate mute at your
    knees!

    Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!You


    melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled
    your words- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!

    III

    - And the poet says that by starlightYou come seeking, in the


    night, the flowers that you pickedAnd that he has seen on the
    water, lying in her long veilsWhite Ophelia floating, like a great
    lily.

    Arthur Rimbaud

    Ophélie
    I

    Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoilesLa


    blanche Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys,Flotte très
    lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles...- On entend
    dans les bois lointains des hallalis.

    Voici plus de mille ans que la triste OphéliePasse,


    fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noirVoici plus de
    mille ans que sa douce folieMurmure sa romance à la
    brise du soir

    Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolleSes grands


    voiles bercés mollement par les eaux ;Les saules
    frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,Sur son grand front
    rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux.

    Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle ;Elle


    éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,Quelque nid, d'où
    s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile :- Un chant mystérieux
    tombe des astres d'or

    II

    O pâle Ophélia ! belle comme la neige !Oui tu mourus,


    enfant, par un fleuve emporté !C'est que les vents
    tombant des grand monts de NorwègeT'avaient parlé
    tout bas de l'âpre liberté ;

    C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,À ton


    esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits,Que ton coeur
    écoutait le chant de la NatureDans les plaintes de
    l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits ;

    C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,Brisait


    ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux ;C'est qu'un
    matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,Un pauvre fou,
    s'assit muet à tes genoux !

    Ciel ! Amour ! Liberté ! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle !Tu


    te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu :Tes grandes
    visions étranglaient ta parole- Et l'Infini terrible éffara
    ton oeil bleu !

    III

    - Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoilesTu viens


    chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis ;Et qu'il a vu
    sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles,La blanche
    Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.

    Arthur Rimbaud

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