C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Fifty Years
By Pierre Jean de Béranger (1780–1857)
Translation of Walter Learned
W
Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty years to-day.
O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Fruit dies upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.
Nay, open not. ’Tis not for me—
Or else the doctor calls. Not yet
Must I expect his studious bow.
Once I’d have called, “Come in, Lizzette”—
Alas, for I am fifty now!
The torturing gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness that provokes a smile.
Then Reason’s lamp grows faint and dim
With flickering ray. Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him—
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;
The sexton knocks and I must go—
Farewell, my friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the sombre truth,
This incubus of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again—
Alas, for I am fifty now!