January
Child, you will be told later that the grandfather
Liked you, that he did his best on Earth
That he had hardly any joys and made many jealous
That in the time when you were small he was old
That he had neither surly words nor gloomy airs
And that he left you in the season of the roses
That he died, that it was a clement chap
That in the famous winter of the big bombardment
He crossed Paris tragic and full of swords
To carry you lots of toys, dolls
And marionettes making one thousand farcial gestures
And you will be pensive under the deep trees.
Victor Hugo
February
It’s tin-colored February
Which whistles the first refrains
And which promises to laugh a bit
Riding over the ravines
It’s silver-colored February
Which travels through the wind
And makes by all weathers
His banner float at the sunrise
Paule Lavergne
March
Hailstones still fall
But we know it’s a joke
When the clouds tear away
The sky frothes of rays
The wind ruffles the buds
For such a long time that it
makes them glow
Hailstones still fall
But we know it’s a joke
The warblers and the finches
Have so many things to say
That in the frenzy gardens
We forget the first bumblebees
Hailstones still fall
Maurice Carême
Le mois d’avril
Renewal
From April to May
The land become nicer
A good weather of a pretty girl,
Pulls the needle, take the thimble.
Sometimes a beautiful rainbow
Rejoice the rain which shines
From April to May
The land become nicer
The violet is in the meadow;
In the clearing, the daffodil
Under the tree in hopes of a family
We ear the blackbird singing
From April to May.
Pierre Menanteau
« The month of may »
Innocent bells of the lily of the valley,
Ring! Because here is May!
Under a shower of light,
The trees sing in the orchard
And the seeds of the vegetable garden
Get out laughing from the Earth
Ring! Because here is May!
Innocent bells of the lily of the valley,
With shiny eyes, light soul,
The little girls go to the wood
Join the fairies who, already,
Dance in a circle on the heather,
Ring! Because here is May!
Innocent bells of the lily oft he valley,
Maurice Carême.
Nights of June
In summer, when the day has fled, covered of flowers
The plain pours far away an intoxicate perfume;
The eyes closed, the ears slightly open to the rumble,
We half sleep of an imperceptible sleep.
The stars are purer, the shade seems better ;
A unclear half day dyes the eternal dome ;
And the sweet and pale dawn, waiting for its hour,
Seems wander all the night down the sky.
Victor Hugo
The house in July
The house in July, during the afternoon,
In the shade of the blind the bedroom acclimatizes ;
The silence is pleased, quiet, sweet, cooled down,
Like the milk which sleeps in a chilly bowl.
The wooden clock make a slow, bold noise,
Such as a cat which pushes with its paw
The instants, whose one sing and the other is muffled.
The sun comes and goes in the delicate shade.
All is gentle, peaceful, emboldened, charming,
It looks like joy lives among us ;
Yet we don't feel any attachment...
Why don't we ever leave in these instants,
Life with its big space of torment ?
Anna de Noailles
August
Let us hurry! the sun burns us on these rocks!
Don’t you feel from here the waves so close ?
And the sea! Do you hear it ? Do you see all this fishermen ?
Don’t you hear the shouts and the arms of swimmers ?
Ah! Give me the sea and the sounds of shore back :
This is where my wild childhood awake;
In these waves , stormy as my future,
My life and all my memories reflect !
The sea ! I like the sea roaring and surging,
Or, as in a basin an oily liquor,
The calm and silver sea! On its frothy flanks
What a pleasure to go down and to leap like them,
Or, gently rocked, holding his breath,
To give in like an algae to the flow that takes you away,
Hence we only see the wave and the heavens,
The golden clouds passing silently,
And seabirds, all extending the head
And throwing a muffled cry as a sign of storm…
Ô Sea, in your rest, in your noises, in your air,
Like a lover, I love you! And greet you, ô sea (…)
Auguste Brizeux - Marie
août
September
At the end of September stars cool down
And there is, in the meadow, a smell of too ripe apples
I’d like the sea, which travels continuously,
To write me a very-white salted letter with just a shadow of
melancholia
Where it tells me about far away countries and green shores
One letter for autumn.
We’ll read it under the light because days shorten at the grapeharvest
And because ocean is far away in spite of the wind which tells
us about it
I brought logs and splint to light the fire
And I’ll look at the flame dancing on your cheekbones.
Claude Roy
October Morning
It's the delightful and early hour
Which a sudden sun turns red.
Through the autumnal mist,
Fall the leaves of the garden.
Their fall is slow. We can follow them
By glance recognizing
The oak from its leaf of cooper
The maple from its leaf of blood.
The last ones, the more rusty,
Fall from bare branches;
But it is not winter yet.
A blonde light sprays
The nature, and, in the all-pink air,
We would believe that it is snowing gold.
François COPPEE.
November
When autumn, shortening the days it consumes,
Turns off their evening of flame and freezes their dawn,
When November floods the blue sky with mist,
When the wood swirls and leaves snow ,
Ô my muse! In my soul when you meditate,
Like a numb child approaching the fire
In front of the dark winter Paris which buzzes,
Your Eastern sun disappears and leaves you,
Your beautiful dream of Asia fails, and you see only
In your eyes the street accustomed to the noise,
Fog at your window and long streams of smoke
which bath fleeing the angle of the blackened roofs.
Victor Hugo
December morning
We wake up
cotton in the ears
a small soft anguish
around the heart, like foam
It is the snow
The White winter
On its cork soles
That surprised us, sleeping.
Guy-Charles Cros
The round of the months,
January takes the snow as a shawl ;
February makes our steps slide ;
March with its fingers of pale sun,
Throws hailstones to the lilac.
April clings to the green branches ;
May work to the flowery hats ;
June makes the blossom rose incline
Fields of beautiful hay which cracks and
laughs.
July put the eggs in their shells
August falls asleep on the ripe ears ;
September with its long vague evenings,
Slides everywhere with its golden leaves.
October has all the angers,
November has all the songs
Streams flooding over of light water,
And December has all the shivers.
Rosemonde Gérard
The months of the year
January to say to the year “hello”
February to say to the snow “you must melt”
March to say to the migratory bird “come back”
April to say to the flower “open up”
May to say “workmen, our friend”
June to say the sea “take us far away”
July to say to the sun “it’s your season”
August to say “the man is happy to be a man”
September to say to the wheat “change into gold”
October to say “friends, freedom”
November to say to the tree “undress”
December to say to the year “Farewell, good luck”
And twelve more months per year, my son
To tell you that I love you.
Alain Bosquet