L’hiver by T.F. de Banville
Au bois de Boulogne, l’Hiver,
La terre a son manteau de neige.
Mille Iris, qui tendent leur piège,
Y passent comme un vif éclair.
Toutes, sous le ciel gris et clair,
Nous chantent le même solfège;
Au bois de Boulogne, l’Hiver,
La terre a son manteau de neige.
Toutes les blancheurs de la chair
Y passent, radieux cortège;
Les Antiopes de Corrège
S’habillent de martre et de vair
Au bois de Boulogne, l’Hiver.
Winter translation by Hélène Lindqvist
At the forest of Boulogne in the winter
the earth wears its coat of snow
Thousand Irises that wind up their traps
pass by like a vivid flash
Under a grey and clear sky
all sing us the same skales
At the forest of Boulogne in the winter
the earth wears its coat of snow
Here all the whiteness of the flesh
passes by in a beaming cortege
The Antiopes of Corrège
are dressed in marten and fur
At the forest of Boulogne in the winter