Ce chariot plus beau que n’est celui de l’Ourse
Et qu’il a fait rouler pendant la dure course
Qui sur terre commence un céleste destin.
Francis Jammes
Orthez, 29 Juillet 1915
AN EPITAPH
[TRANSLATION]
Here such an one lies dead for France. His trade
To push a barrow stocked with thread, cheese, salt
From town to town, under the azure vault,
Through endless corridors of rustling shade.
True to the sacred law of toil, he made
His humble living as the Book commands,
Till suddenly there burst upon his lands
The thunder of the German cannonade.
Poor hero! In the flash that smote him dead
He saw his wife and children all in black
Weeping about the cart that earned their bread—
The cart that, by his passionate impulse sped
On immortality’s celestial track,
Shone brighter than the Wain above his head.
Francis Jammes
IN SLEEP
I dreamt (no “dream” awake—a dream indeed)
A wrathful man was talking in the Park:
“Where are the Higher Powers who know our need,
Yet leave us in the dark?
“There are no Higher Powers; there is no heart
In God, no love”—his oratory here,
Taking the paupers’ and the cripples’ part,
Was broken by a tear.
And next it seemed that One who did invent
Compassion, who alone created pity,
Walked, as though called, and hastened as He went
Out from the muttering city;