The Spring

Close to the lake there filters a spring,

Between two stones, out of the way,

Joyfully the water is going

As though it were headed far away.

It gives a murmur: Oh! what bliss!

Under the earth it is so dark!

Now my shore each verdant is,

Heaven itself may in me remark.

The forget-me-nots in their blue petals

Say: remember me on your rambles!

The dragonflies with their tails

Scratch along me in their gambols.

The birds water them at my cup,

Who knows?—After many detours

I shall become a river perhaps

Bathing valleys, rocks and towers.

With my foam I shall embroider

Bridges of stone, quays of granite,

Bearing along the smoking steamer

To the Ocean where all’s ended.

Thus the young spring prattles on,

A hundred future projects shaping;

Like the water that ends in a vase,

Its flood knows little of containing.

But the crib to the tomb is bound;

The future giant dies quite small;

Scarcely born, the spring falls down

Into the lake that engulfs it all!

Théophile Gautier