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Litteral translation (AJ):
I was not thinking about Rose, Rose, to the woods, came with me; We were talking about something, But I don’t remember what.
I was as cold as the marble, I was walking absent-minded steps, I was talking about the flowers, the trees, Her eyes seemed to say "So what?"
The dew was offering its pearls, The bush its umbrellas; I was going and listening to the blackbirds And Rose to the nightingales.
I, sixteen year old and a morose face, She, twenty and bright eyes. The nightingales were singing for Rose And the blackbirds whistling at me.
Rose, straight on her hips, Raised her fair trembling arm To take a berry on the branches: I did not see her white arm.
A stream was running fresh and hollow On the velvety mosses, And nature in love Was sleeping in the big muffled woods.
Rose undid her shoe And put, with a naive gesture, Her little foot in the clear water. I did not see her naked foot!
I did not know what to say to her, I was following her in the wood, Seeing her sometimes smiling And sometimes sighing.
I only saw that she was beautiful When we left the muffled woods. "OK, let’s stop thinking about it" she said. Since, I keep thinking about it, always!
For anything not permitted by the above licence then you should contact the publisher first to obtain permission.
Reviews of Je ne songeais pas à Rose (E. Pessard / Victor Hugo)
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