Sully Prudhomme (1839–1907)

Translated by Arthur O’Shaughnessy

NIGHTLY tormented by returning doubt,

I dare the Sphinx with faith and unbelief;

And through lone hours when no sleep brings relief

The monster rises all my hopes to flout.

In a still agony, the light blown out,

I wrestle with the Unknown; nor long nor brief

The night appears, my narrow couch of grief

Grown like the grave with Death walled round about.

Sometimes my mother, coming with her lamp,

Seeing my brow as with a death-sweat damp,

Asks, “Ah, what ails thee, child? hast thou no rest?”

And then I answer, touched by her look of yearning,

Holding my beating heart and forehead burning,

“Mother, I strove with God, and was hard prest.”