Partir, C’est Mourir Un Peu: Edmond Haraucourt

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Partir, c’est mourir un peu,
C’est mourir à ce qu’on aime:
On laisse un peu de soi-même
En toute heure at tout lieu.

C’est toujours le deuil d’un vœu,
Le dernier vers d’un poème ;
Partir, c’est mourir un peu.
Et l’on part, et c’est un jeu,

Et jusqu’à l’adieu suprême
C’est son âme que l’on sème,
Que l’on sème à chaque adieu…
Partir, c’est mourir un peu.

To go away is to die a little,
It is to die to that which one loves:
Everywhere and always,
One leaves behind a part of oneself.
It is always the mourning of a wish
The last verse of a poem
To go away is to die a little.
And one leaves, and it’s a game
And until the final farewell
It is one’s soul that one scatters
That one scatters with each farewell.
To go away is to die a little.

Edmond Haraucourt 1856-1941

Seul (1891), Rondel de l’Adieu

The illustration is copyright: Halil Terzioglu via Shutterstock
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About layanglicana

Author of books on Calcutta, Delhi and Dar es Salaam, I am now blogging as a lay person about the Church of England and the Anglican Communion. I am also blogging about the effects of World War One on the village of St Mary Bourne, Hampshire.
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