mardi 24 décembre 2013

Joyeux Noël


POÈME DE NOËL DE CLÉMENT MOORE



La nuit avant Noël

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En 1822, un pasteur new-yorkais du nom de Clément Clarke Moore écrivit un  poème mettant en scène un Père Noël entièrement vêtu de rouge, assis dans un traineau tiré par des rennes, avec un sac de jouets toujours plein, et des bas accrochés au-dessus de la cheminée dans l'attente des cadeaux.

Ces images poétiques ont symbolisé Noël pour des générations et des générations d'enfants.
Intitulé " A visit from Saint Nicholas " puis publié anonymement dans un journal de l'état de New York, ce poème séduisit immédiatement l'imagination du public.

A tel point que le premier vers : " Twas the night before Christmas " prit rapidement la place du titre original .

Une des raisons pour lesquelles le poème de Moore connaît toujours le même succès est la joie qu'on éprouve à le lire à haute voix. Il commence dans le silence et le suspense pour monter en un crescendo dramatique tandis que ses vers joyeux annoncent le mystérieux visiteur de minuit.

Récit merveilleux en attendant Noël " The night before Christmas " est devenu depuis un véritable rite dans beaucoup de familles anglo-saxonnes.

Et vous aussi. Vous ne pourrez pas résister au plaisir de renouer avec cette vieille tradition qui veut qu'on lise ce poème à haute voix afin que tous puissent en partager la joie et l'émotion.

Le poème en version originale

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash,

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little, old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stocking; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
Happy christmas to all and to all a good night

Un être dépressif - 15 -

  Un être dépressif -  1 5   - Une transplantation, c’est extraire de la terre pour la planter ailleurs.   Je tarde à le publier ce dernier ...