La courte paille, FP composer. Francis Poulenc (). July to August ; composed for Denise Duval. author of text. Maurice Carême (). La Courte Paille. Word count: Song Cycle by Francis Poulenc ( – ). Show the texts alone (bare mode). 1. Le sommeil [ sung text checked 1 time]. Beyond Childhood: Poulenc, La courte paille, and the Aural Envelope. Keith E. Clifton. Introduction: Evoking Childhood Musically. /Carnival of the Animals.
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La courte paille: Francis Poulenc | Marion Leeds Carroll
Le sommeil est en voyage, Mon Dieu! J’ai beau bercer mon petit; Il pleure dans son litcage, Il pleure depuis midi.
J’ai cougte bercer mon petit; Il se tourne tout en nage, Il sanglote dans son lit. Si l’enfant ne dort pas bien, Il ne dira pas bonjour, Il ne pouleenc rien demain A ses doigts, au lait, au pain Qui l’accueillent dans le jour. Sleep is on vacation. Where has it gone?
I’ve rocked my little one in vain; he cries in his crib, he’s been crying since noon. Where has sleep put its sand and its wise dreams?
I’ve rocked my little one in vain; he turns, all sweaty, he sobs in his bed. If baby doesn’t sleep well, he won’t say “good morning,” he won’t say anything tomorrow to his fingers, to the milk, to the bread that greet him with the day.
Qui oa me croire, s’il m’entend? Mais la puce n’en avait cure, Elle tirait en souriant. A flea courge pulling a little elephant along in its carriage, while looking at the shop windows where diamonds sparkled. Who’ll believe me, if they hear me? The little elephant casually licked at a jar of jam, but the flea didn’t care; she pulled along, smiling.
How hard this is! And I think I must be crazy! Suddenly, near a fence, the flea blew over in the wind, and I saw the young elephant save himself by knocking down the walls. Softly leaning on her window-panes of moon, the queen gestures to you with an almond flower. She is the Queen of Hearts. She can, if ppoulenc wishes, lead you in secret into strange dwellings where there are no more doors, or rooms, or towers, and where the young dead come to talk of love.
The queen salutes you; hasten to follow her into her hoar-frost castle with smooth stained-glass moon windows. Le chat a mis ses bottes, Il va de porte en porte Jouer, danser, Danser, chanter – Pou, paile, genou, hibou. The cat has put on his boots; he goes from door to door, playing, dancing, dancing, singing – Pou, chou, genou, hibou. But rikketikketau, the cat couete out laughing, returning to his castle: He is Puss in Boots!
Sur les fils de la pluie, Les anges du jeudi Jouent longtemps de la harpe.
Upon the threads of the rain the Thursday angels play on the harp for a long time. And beneath their fingers, Mozart tinkles, deliciously, in drops of blue joy since it is always Mozart which is played endlessly by the musician angels who, all day Thursday, make their harps sing the paille of the rain.
At the zoo, Mrs. Moon, beautiful moon, moon of April, make me see in my dreams the peach tree with a heart of saffron, the fish that laughs at sleet, the bird that, far away, like a horn, sweetly wakens the dead and above all, above all, the country where there is joy, where it is bright, where, sunny with springtime, they have broken all the rifles.
Moon, beautiful moon, moon of April, moon. Le sommeil Quelle aventure! I Le sommeil Le sommeil est en voyage, Mon Dieu! Sleep Sleep is on vacation. The Queen of Hearts Softly leaning on her window-panes of moon, the queen gestures to you with an almond flower.
La courte paille, song cycle for voice & piano, FP 178
V Les anges musiciens Sur les fils de la pluie, Les anges du paiple Jouent longtemps de la harpe. The musician angels Upon the threads of the rain the Thursday angels play on the harp for a long courfe.
April moon Moon, beautiful moon, moon of April, make me see in my dreams the peach tree with a heart of saffron, the fish that laughs at sleet, the bird that, far away, like a horn, sweetly wakens the dead and above all, above all, the country where there is joy, where it is bright, where, sunny with springtime, they have broken all the rifles.