You are in:
Spiritist Review - Journal of Psychological Studies - 1866 > June > Spiritist Poetry > To your book
To your book
Paris, May 11th, 1866 – medium Mr. V…
Child, you will leave us shortly,
The humble roof that saw you born,
Running the world, facing its dangers,
And perhaps dying, short of your destiny.
Before fleeing our shore,
O my dear boy, listen once more
The guiding voice of your young age.
Alas, my son, in your path,
Many times by the proud shrub,
Your white hands will be torn,
And its poisonous thorn
Will limp your bruised foot,
More than once in the course.
Never mind! Far from here find the force
In the guiding star that shines your way,
Marching forward, always;
Do not miss the motherland,
The village, the home, faraway,
Dying without regretting your life,
If you were to lose it one day,
Preaching to all for doctrine,
Faith, love and charity,
Of your divine law, the only duty;
Tearing pride away everywhere,
False knowledge and egotism,
Stretching out like a shroud,
On the cradle of Spiritism;
By repeating what the voice
Of all these invisible worlds
Seems to reveal to you, sometimes,
In unspeakable whispers,
By pitying a rude century,
Adding insult to injury,
Calling you a witch,
Or a fortune teller;
By forgiving the contempt,
Trying through the prayer
To gather the many friends
Under the humble and holy banner.
I said: Go, child, farewell;
Your task is heavy and hard,
But believe and trust in your God,
Ease the way for you, He will.
A poet Spirit
In the following session, on May 18th, the same medium spontaneously wrote the following:
“An answer to a criticism of my verses “To your book”, made a little lightheartedly last Friday, by an unknown person that I do not see here tonight.”
In a mysterious grove,
Hidden by the emerging foliage
Of green lilacs, every year
In the Spring, we could hear
A gracious lark
Sing her beautiful song.
The birds of the neighboring woods
Came every morning,
Placing themselves by her side, in silence,
To better listen to the cadence,
That the pure voice shouted,
Spun, beaded, modulated
With an infinite grace.
The astonished and delighted crowd
Applauded the diva
When, by chance,
A young blackbird came
And began to whistle with rage
A monotonous melody
That we admired without reason.
The lark stopped, suddenly,
Smiled and told the spoiler:
You blackbird, that whistles so well,
You must sing as well.
Could we not, beautiful bird, one day listen to you?
The blackbird did not respond, fleeing away.
Why? You guess… Good night. I’m on my way.
Alfred de Musset
Child, you will leave us shortly,
The humble roof that saw you born,
Running the world, facing its dangers,
And perhaps dying, short of your destiny.
Before fleeing our shore,
O my dear boy, listen once more
The guiding voice of your young age.
Alas, my son, in your path,
Many times by the proud shrub,
Your white hands will be torn,
And its poisonous thorn
Will limp your bruised foot,
More than once in the course.
Never mind! Far from here find the force
In the guiding star that shines your way,
Marching forward, always;
Do not miss the motherland,
The village, the home, faraway,
Dying without regretting your life,
If you were to lose it one day,
Preaching to all for doctrine,
Faith, love and charity,
Of your divine law, the only duty;
Tearing pride away everywhere,
False knowledge and egotism,
Stretching out like a shroud,
On the cradle of Spiritism;
By repeating what the voice
Of all these invisible worlds
Seems to reveal to you, sometimes,
In unspeakable whispers,
By pitying a rude century,
Adding insult to injury,
Calling you a witch,
Or a fortune teller;
By forgiving the contempt,
Trying through the prayer
To gather the many friends
Under the humble and holy banner.
I said: Go, child, farewell;
Your task is heavy and hard,
But believe and trust in your God,
Ease the way for you, He will.
A poet Spirit
In the following session, on May 18th, the same medium spontaneously wrote the following:
“An answer to a criticism of my verses “To your book”, made a little lightheartedly last Friday, by an unknown person that I do not see here tonight.”
In a mysterious grove,
Hidden by the emerging foliage
Of green lilacs, every year
In the Spring, we could hear
A gracious lark
Sing her beautiful song.
The birds of the neighboring woods
Came every morning,
Placing themselves by her side, in silence,
To better listen to the cadence,
That the pure voice shouted,
Spun, beaded, modulated
With an infinite grace.
The astonished and delighted crowd
Applauded the diva
When, by chance,
A young blackbird came
And began to whistle with rage
A monotonous melody
That we admired without reason.
The lark stopped, suddenly,
Smiled and told the spoiler:
You blackbird, that whistles so well,
You must sing as well.
Could we not, beautiful bird, one day listen to you?
The blackbird did not respond, fleeing away.
Why? You guess… Good night. I’m on my way.
Alfred de Musset