A poem for Tuesday

This is Beckett's translation of L'Amoureuse by Paul Éluard (the French original is transcribed below). I've read a few translations of this poem and Beckett's has, by far, the most tender touch. But of course I'd think that...

Lady Love
She is standing on my lids
And her hair is in my hair,
She has the colour of my eye,
She has the body of my hand,
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky.

She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep.
And her dreams in the bright day
Makes the suns evaporate,
And me laugh cry and laugh,
Speak when I have nothing to say.


Elle est debout sur mes paupières
Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens,
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s'engloutit dans mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.

Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormir.
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s'évaporer les soleils
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire.
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