January  Child, you will be told later that the grandfather Liked you, that he did his best on Earth That he had hardly any joys and made many jealous That in the time when you were small he was old That he had neither surly words nor gloomy airs And that he left you in the season of the roses That he died, that it was a clement chap That in the famous winter of the big bombardment He crossed Paris tragic and full of swords To carry you lots of toys, dolls And marionettes making one thousand farcial gestures And you will be pensive under the deep trees.  Victor Hugo

February It’s tin-colored FebruaryWhich whistles the first refrainsAnd which promises to laugh a bitRiding over the ravines It’s silver-colored FebruaryWhich travels through the windAnd makes by all weathers His banner float at the sunrise Paule Lavergne

March Hailstones still fallBut we know it’s a jokeWhen the clouds tear awayThe sky frothes of raysThe wind ruffles the budsFor such a long time that it makes them glowHailstones still fallBut we know it’s a jokeThe warblers and the finchesHave so many things to sayThat in the frenzy gardens We forget the first bumblebeesHailstones still fall

Maurice Carême

Le mois d’avril Renewal From April to MayThe land become nicerA good weather of a pretty girl,Pulls the needle, take the thimble. Sometimes a beautiful rainbow Rejoice the rain which shinesFrom April to MayThe land become nicer The violet is in the meadow;In the clearing, the daffodilUnder the tree in hopes of a familyWe ear the blackbird singingFrom April to May. Pierre Menanteau

« The month of may »  Innocent bells of the lily of the valley,Ring! Because here is May! Under a shower of light, The trees sing in the orchardAnd the seeds of the vegetable garden Get out laughing from the Earth Ring! Because here is May!Innocent bells of the lily of the valley, With shiny eyes, light soul,The little girls go to the woodJoin the fairies who, already,Dance in a circle on the heather,  Ring! Because here is May!Innocent bells of the lily oft he valley, Maurice Carême.

Nights of June In summer, when the day has fled, covered of flowersThe plain pours far away an intoxicate perfume;The eyes closed, the ears slightly open to the rumble,We half sleep of an imperceptible sleep. The stars are purer, the shade seems better ;A unclear half day dyes the eternal dome ;And the sweet and pale dawn, waiting for its hour,Seems wander all the night down the sky.Victor Hugo

The house in July The house in July, during the afternoon,In the shade of the blind the bedroom acclimatizes ;The silence is pleased, quiet, sweet, cooled down,Like the milk which sleeps in a chilly bowl. The wooden clock make a slow, bold noise,Such as a cat which pushes with its pawThe instants, whose one sing and the other is muffled.The sun comes and goes in the delicate shade. All is gentle, peaceful, emboldened, charming,It looks like joy lives among us ;Yet we don't feel any attachment...Why don't we ever leave in these instants,Life with its big space of torment ? Anna de Noailles

août

August  Let us hurry! the sun burns us on these rocks!Don’t you feel from here the waves so close ?And the sea! Do you hear it ? Do you see all this fishermen ?Don’t you hear the shouts and the arms of swimmers ?Ah! Give me the sea and the sounds of shore back :This is where my wild childhood awake;In these waves , stormy as my future,My life and all my memories reflect !The sea ! I like the sea roaring and surging, Or, as in a basin an oily liquor,The calm and silver sea! On its frothy flanksWhat a pleasure to go down and to leap like them, Or, gently rocked, holding his breath,To give in like an algae to the flow that takes you away,Hence we only see the wave and the heavens,The golden clouds passing silently,And seabirds, all extending the headAnd throwing a muffled cry as a sign of storm…Ô Sea, in your rest, in your noises, in your air, Like a lover, I love you! And greet you, ô sea (…)Auguste Brizeux - Marie

SeptemberAt the end of September stars cool downAnd there is, in the meadow, a smell of too ripe applesI’d like the sea, which travels continuously,To write me a very-white salted letter with just a shadow of melancholiaWhere it tells me about far away countries and green shoresOne letter for autumn.We’ll read it under the light because days shorten at the grape-harvestAnd because ocean is far away in spite of the wind which tells us about itI brought logs and splint to light the fireAnd I’ll look at the flame dancing on your cheekbones.

Claude Roy

October Morning  It's the delightful and early hourWhich a sudden sun turns red.Through the autumnal mist,Fall the leaves of the garden. Their fall is slow. We can follow themBy glance recognizingThe oak from its leaf of cooperThe maple from its leaf of blood. The last ones, the more rusty,Fall from bare branches;But it is not winter yet. A blonde light spraysThe nature, and, in the all-pink air,We would believe that it is snowing gold.François COPPEE.

November When autumn, shortening the days it consumes, Turns off their evening of flame and freezes their dawn, When November floods the blue sky with mist, When the wood swirls and leaves snow ,Ô my muse! In my soul when you meditate,Like a numb child approaching the fire  In front of the dark winter Paris which buzzes,Your Eastern sun disappears and leaves you,Your beautiful dream of Asia fails, and you see onlyIn your eyes the street accustomed to the noise,Fog at your window and long streams of smokewhich bath fleeing the angle of the blackened roofs.  Victor Hugo

December morning

We wake upcotton in the ears a small soft anguish around the heart, like foam It is the snow The White winter On its cork soles That surprised us, sleeping. Guy-Charles Cros

The round of the months,  January takes the snow as a shawl ;February makes our steps slide ;March with its fingers of pale sun,Throws hailstones to the lilac. April clings to the green branches ;May work to the flowery hats ;June makes the blossom rose inclineFields of beautiful hay which cracks and laughs. July put the eggs in their shellsAugust falls asleep on the ripe ears ;September with its long vague evenings,Slides everywhere with its golden leaves. October has all the angers,November has all the songsStreams flooding over of light water,And December has all the shivers.Rosemonde Gérard

The months of the year January to say to the year “hello”February to say to the snow “you must melt”March to say to the migratory bird “come back”April to say to the flower “open up”May to say “workmen, our friend”June to say the sea “take us far away”July to say to the sun “it’s your season”August to say “the man is happy to be a man”September to say to the wheat “change into gold”October to say “friends, freedom”November to say to the tree “undress”December to say to the year “Farewell, good luck”And twelve more months per year, my sonTo tell you that I love you.

Alain Bosquet