Triste

I have had this song stuck in my head for days. It is an art song by Claude Debussy, called “Beau Soir,” the lyrics of which come from a poem by Paul Bourget.

Lorsque au soleil couchant les rivières sont roses
Et qu’un tiède frisson court sur les champs de blé,
Un conseil d’être heureux semble sortir des choses
Et monter vers le coeur troublé.

Un conseil de goûter le charme d’être au monde
Ce pendant qu’on est jeune et que le soir est beau,
Car nous nous en allons, comme s’en va cette onde:
Elle à la mer, nous au tombeau.

The song is pretty, but it’s creepy, too. The setting is sunset and the rivers have turned rose-colored. How lovely! But then the creepiness comes in with “frisson,” which in English is so often used to describe a shiver of fear. Its definition in French is pretty much the same. This shiver is in the wheat fields (or corn fields), which is even creepier. Creepiest of all, the poem ends with “we’re going to the grave.”

I didn’t realize it until I sat down and really thought about the lyrics, but the theme of the poem is “Be happy. Life is short,” or something along those lines. That’s clearly some kind of birthday message. My mind has gotten so desperate that it’s using French songs to send me messages.

That’s sad.

Or should I say, “C’est triste?”