In observing Lili Boulanger’s birthday anniversary on August 21st, I came across this piece I’d never heard before, and I decided to squirrel it away for September. This is Boulanger’s lovely setting of “Soleils de Septembre” (“The Suns of September”), from 1912. She would have been in her late teens. The poem, by Auguste Lacaussade (1815-1897), inspires a melancholy meditation on the change of seasons and the passage of time; but Boulanger’s setting concludes with a sense of optimism, a series of trills, suggestive of birds and sunshine, “the intoxication of song,” and “the happiness of loving.” The piece takes on an added degree of poignancy, when we reflect that the composer would die young, in 1918, at the age of 24.
You’ll find the song at the link, with an English translation of the text below.
Under these warm rays of suns of September
The sky is soft, but pale, and the earth turns yellow.
In the forests the leaf has the color of amber;
The bird no longer sings on the edge of its nest.
From the roof of the plowmen have fled the swallows;
The sickle has passed on the golden ear of corn;
No one hears in the air shivers of wings:
The blackbird whistles alone in the depths of the troubled woods.
The mousse is perfume-free, the herbs without softness;
The rush on the ponds looks anxious;
The sun, which turns pale, a warm sadness
Fills in the distance the plain and the mountains and the heavens.
The days are abbreviated; the water running in the valley
No longer the joyous noises that delighted the air:
It seems like the earth, and chilly and veiled,
In his first chills he feels winter.
O changing seasons! O inexorable laws!
What mourning nature, alas! will cover himself!
Suns of happy months, irreparable spring,
Farewell! Streams and flowers will shut up and die.
But console yourself, earth! O Nature! O Cybele!
Winter is a sleep and is not the death:
The springs will come back to make you green and beautiful;
Man ages and dies, you do not grow old!
You will return to the streams, dumb by the cold,
Under the leafy arches their singing murmurs;
To birds you will make their nests in the greenery;
To the lilacs of the valley you will return its scents.
Ah! captive germs when you break the chains,
When, from the sap to flow, spilling the liquor,
You will make the roses and the oaks bloom again,
O Nature! with them make my heart bloom again!
Return to my breast dried up poetics sap,
Pour into me the heat of which the soul feeds,
Bring the sheaves of my dreams to my forehead,
Covers my bare boughs from the flowers of my mind.
Without the intoxication of songs, my high and dear drunkenness,
Without the happiness of loving, what do the days matter to me?
O suns! O spring! I do not want youth
What to always sing, only to love always!



