Seems oddly fitting for the Spring Break that should have been . . .

Guys. This is pretty much my favorite French poem ever. Brought to my knowledge by one Prof. Hurlbut, whom I just adore.

So it's Spring Break this week. For everyone who doesn't go to BYU. For those of us who do, this week is full of a whole bunch of same-old. Same-old classes, same-old homework, same-old regular work. The sunshine, however, is fairly new. Too bad I'm stuck inside the entire week. If it's not class, it's my room. If it's not my room, it's work. Did I mention how I'm so poor right now that I'm kind of freaking out about how I'm going to pay for all of my summer plans? Basically this panic translates into me picking up a whole lot of shifts at work. I'm aiming for 30 hours a week. Yes, that's on top of doing homework and studying for my 14 credits' worth of classes, trying to organize things for for my summer internship, editing for a student journal, and getting ready for Lu'au (memorizing words and practicing dances). And yeah. It's times like these when I think to myself, "good thing I don't have a boyfriend/husband/friend/dog," because they probably would forget about me anyway.

So. That being said, here it is, Brise Marine (Sea Breeze) by Stéphane Mallarmé:

La chair est triste, hélas ! et j'ai lu tous les livres.

The flesh is sad, alas! and I read all the books.

Fuir! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres

To flee! to flee out there! I feel that the bird are drunk

D'être parmi l'écume inconnue et les cieux !

to be among the unknown foam and the skies!

Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux

Nothing, neither the old gardens reflected in the eyes

Ne retiendra ce coeur qui dans la mer se trempe

Will hold back this heart drenched in the sea

ô nuits! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe

o nights! Nor the deserted light of my lamp

Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend

On the empty paper sheathed in its whiteness

Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant.

And neither the young wife nursing her child.

Je partirai ! Steamer balançant ta mâture,

I will leave! Steamer swaying your masts,

Lève l'ancre pour exotique nature !

Lift the anchor for exotic lands!

Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs,

A weariness, bereft of cruel hopes,

Croit encore à l'adieu suprême des mouchoirs !

Yet believes in the ultimate farewell of handkerchiefs!

Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages,

And, perhaps, the masts, inviting storms,

Sont-ils de ceux qu'un vent penche sur les naufrages

May be those a wind bends over in shipwrecks

Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots ...

Lost, without masts, nor masts nor fertile islands,

Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots.

But, oh my heart, hear the song of the sailors.

Cruise, anyone? Sadly, I think this is probably as close as I'll get for Spring Break.

But still, fuir, fuir I will!

Just not this week.