LILIES OF THE VALLEY - by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY by   Pyotr  Ilyich  Tchaikovsky When at the end of spring I pick for the last time My favourite flowers — a yearning fills my breast, And to the future I urgently appeal: Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley. Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by, The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still, The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light, And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet. Then when harsh winter comes And the forests don their snowy cover, Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning For the skies to shine with the sun of spring. I find no pleasure in books, or conversation, Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball's noisy glitter, Or Patti, or the theatre, or delicate cuisine, Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears, The wood has cast off its shroud And prepares for us shade, And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound, And at last the long-looked-for day is here ! Quick to the woods !—I race along the familiar path. Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled ? There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring. O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye ? Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand, With brighter colours and livelier patterns, Yet they have not your mysterious fascination. Where lies the secret of your charms ?  What do you prophesy to the soul ? With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart ? Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures, Or is it future bliss that you promise us ? I know not. But your balmy fragrance, Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me, Like music, it takes my breath away, And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks. And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley, The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace, And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart  in languid comfort Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe. Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before Will I be tormented by importunate yearning, By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May. And then someday spring again will call And raise the living world out of its fetters. But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living, I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn. And then what ?—Where, at the winged hour of death, Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar ? No answer! Be silent, my restless mind, You cannot guess what eternity holds for us. But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live, We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring! The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar The yawning maw of the grave so dark !

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
(1840-1893)
Nikolay Kuznetsov's portrait of the composer, 1893


Lilies of the Valley (Ландыши), is a poem written by Tchaikovsky in December 1878 while he was in Florence.


"I am terribly proud of this poem", he wrote when enclosing a copy to his brother Modest. "For the first time in my life I have managed to write a fairly good poem, which moreover is deeply heartfelt. I assure you that although it was very difficult, still I worked on it with the same pleasure as I do on music" - Letter 1023 to Modest Tchaikovsky, 15/27 December 1878.