Benediction When, by decree of the supreme powers,
The Poet appears in this bored world,
His mother, appalled and blaspheming,
Shakes her fists at God, who pities her:

-- "Oh, I'd rather have laid a nest of vipers,
Than to have suckled this piece of derision!
Cursed be the night of ephemeral pleasures
When my belly conceived my expiation!

Because you chose me from among all women
To be the object of disgust of my sad husband,
And because I cannot throw this stunted monster
Into the flames, like a love letter,

I will turn your hatred, hatred that crushes me,
Back upon the cursed instrument of your spiteful cruelties,
And I will so twist this miserable tree,
That it will be unable to send forth its stinking buds!"

Thus she swallows the froth of her hatred,
And, not understanding the eternal designs,
She herself prepares at the bottom of Gehenna
The pyres consecrated to maternal crimes.

Yet, under the invisible protection of an Angel,
The disinherited Child gets drunk on sunlight
And in all that he drinks and all that he eats
He tastes ambrosia and vermilion nectar.

He plays with the wind, he speaks to the cloud,
And gets drunk singing the stations of the cross;
And the Spirit that follows him on his pilgrimage
Weeps to see him as happy as a bird in the woods.

All those he would love look at him with fear,
Or else, made bold by his tranquility,
Try to see which of them can draw a cry from him,
And they test their ferocity upon him.

Into the bread and wine destined for his mouth
They mix ashes and their impure spittle;
They hypocritically throw away anything he touches,
And reproach themselves for having followed in his path.

His wife yells in the public squares:
"Since he finds me beautiful enough to worship,
I will take up the trade of the ancient idols,
And like them, I want to be gold-plated;

And I will glut myself on nard, on incense, on myrrh,
On genuflexions, on meats and on wines,
To see if I can, in a heart that admires me,
Usurp, laughing, the homages reserved for God alone!

And, when I am bored with these impious farces,
I will lay my frail yet strong hand upon him;
And my nails, like the nails of the harpies,
Will claw their way to his very heart.

I will tear that red red heart from his breast,
Like a very young bird that trembles and quivers,
And, to appease the hunger of my favorite beast,
I will throw it to the ground with disdain!"

Toward Heaven, in which his eyes see a splendid throne,
The serene Poet lifts his pious arms
And the grand flashes of his lucid intellect
Hide from him the sight of the maddened masses:

-- "Blessed art Thou, my God, who offer suffering
As a divine remedy for our impurities
And as the best and most pure essence
For preparing the strong for sacred delights!

I know that you hold a place for the Poet
In the happy ranks of the holy Legions,
And that you invite him to the eternal feast
Of Thrones, of Virtues, of Dominions.

I know that suffering is the only nobility
That cannot be eaten by earth or hell,
And that to plait my mystic crown
I must tax all times and all universes.

But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra,
Unknown metals, pearls from the sea,
Even if they were set by your hand, would never be enough
For that beautiful, dazzling diadem;

For it can only be made of pure light,
Drawn from the sacred source of the first rays,
And of which mortal eyes, in their full splendor,
Are only darkened and plaintive mirrors!"