Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow

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Since Adam, this cruel man,
Lost his famous garden,
Where his wife, around an apple,
Roamed without farthingale,
I don’t believe that on earth
It be a place of trees planted
More celebrated, more visited,
Better done, prettier, better haunted,
Better trained in the art of pleasing,
More examined, more praised,
More described, more read, more sung,
That the boring park of Versailles …

The beauty of a photograph is made up of three essential angles: the frame, the brightness and the sound. Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow. Work by Gokhan Altintas Photography produced in his studios in Versailles.

Since Adam, this cruel man,
Lost his famous garden,
Where his wife, around an apple,
Roamed without farthingale,
I don’t believe that on earth
It be a place of trees planted
More celebrated, more visited,
Better done, prettier, better haunted,
Better trained in the art of pleasing,
More examined, more praised,
More described, more read, more sung,
Than the boring park of Versailles.
O gods! O shepherds! O rockeries!
Old Satyrs, Grumpy terms,
Old small yews in rows of onions,
O basins, quincunxes, arbors!
Boulingrins full of majesty,
Where Sundays, all summer,
So many honest families yawn!
Ghosts of Roman Emperors,
Pale inanimate nymphs
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Who hold out their hands to passers-by,
By water jets all cold!
Turnstiles of lovely bushes,
Mowed groves where warblers
Weeping for their songs,
Where the gods do so many ways
To live dry in their bowls!
O chestnut trees! do not be afraid ;
May your still foliage,
Knowing that I am versifier,
Do not remain less quiet.
No, I swear by Apollo
And through all the sacred valley,
By you, Chipped Naiads,
On three pebbles so badly lying,
By you, old ballet masters,
Fauns dancing on the greenery,
By yourself, august palace,
That we only live in painting,
By Neptune, his pitchfork in his hand,
No, I will not describe you.
I know too well what bothers you;
From Phoebus I see the effects:
These are the verses that were made to you
Who make you look so sad.
So many sonnets, madrigals,
So many ballads, roundels,
Where they celebrated your wonders,
Have deafened your ears,
And we can see that you are sleeping
For being too rhymed.
Where they celebrated your wonders,
Have deafened your ears,
And we can see that you are sleeping
For being too rhymed.
In these places where boredom rests,
Out of respect also I slept.
It was, I believe, only half:
I was dreaming of something else.
But do you remember, my friend,
From these pink marble steps,
Going to the water feature
On the Orangery side,
On the left, leaving the castle?
It was that way, I bet,
What came the unparalleled king,
In the evening, at sunset,
See in the forest, in silence,
The day run away and hide
(If, however, in his presence
The sun dared to set).
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How pretty these three steps are!
How noble and soft this marble is!
Cursed be from heaven, we said,
The foot that would have soiled them!
Isn’t it true? Remember.
– With what charm is nuanced
This half-broken slab!
Do you see those azure veins,
Lightweight, fine and polished,
Running, under the faded roses,
In the whiteness of pure marble?
Such, in the strong and hard bosom
Of the huntress Diana,
Had to run divine blood;
Such, and cooler, is a hand
Who used to lead me on a leash.
Do not go, however, forget
That these steps that I remember
That these steps that I remember
Always deserted and full of glory,
Where this king, who did not wait,
Waited a day, step by step,
Condé, weary of victory.
They are near a white vase,
Neatly done and very gallant.
Is it modern? is it antique?
Others than me know this;
But I quite like to see him there,
Being sure that he is not Gothic.
He is a good vase, a good neighbor;
I readily believe him cousin
Of my rose-colored steps;
He shelters them with pride.
Oh my God ! in so few things
What grace and what beauty!
Tell us, graceful marches,
Kings, princes, prelates,
And the marquises with a great noise,
And the beautiful ambitious ones,
Whose steps you have counted;
These especially, I imagine,
Touching you did not weigh.
When velvet or ermine
Brushed against your delicate contours,
Which was the lightest?
Is it Queen Montespan?
Is it Hortense with a novel,
Maintenon with his breviary,
Or Fontange with his ribbon?
Beautiful marble, have you seen La Vallière?
From Parabère or Sabran
Which one knew better to please you?
40
Between Sabran and Parabère
Even the Regent, after supper,
Would capsize to the point of being mistaken.
Have you seen the mighty Voltaire,
This great rebellion of prejudices,
Advocate of people badly judged,
Of Christ this terrible adversary,
Bedeau from the temple of Kythera,
Presenting at the Pompadour
His old holy water of court?
Have you seen, as in the hermitage,
The Dubarry roundelette
Running, drinking milk,
Barefoot, on the flowering lawn?
Marches who know our history,
In the pompous days of your glory,
What a happy world in these groves!
What great lords, lackeys,
So many duchesses, abomasum,
Red heels, sequins,
So many sighs and cackles,
What plumes and caps,
Of frills and breeches,
What powder under these cradles,
So many people, without counting the fools!
August reign of the wig,
The bourgeois who ignores you
Merit on his flat neck
To have an eternal beanie.
And you, century with a playful mood,
Century all covered with starch,
Those who despise your flour
Are in horror to Cupid! …
Is that your opinion, pink marble?
Despite myself, yet I guess
That the chance that put you there
Didn’t make you for that.
In the land where the sun shines,
Near a Greek or Latin temple,
The beautiful feet of a young girl,
Smelling of heather and thyme,
Slapping you with their sandals,
Would have better cheered your tiles
Than a satin slipper.
Is it also for this use
That nature had formed
Your once virgin and wild block
That genius would have animated?
When the pickaxe and the trowel
Sealed you in this muddy park,
By planting yourself there in spite of the gods,
Mansard insulted Praxiteles.
Yes, if your sides were to open,
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We had to get out
Some new divinity.
When their saw squeaked on you,
The stonemasons hurt
Some Venus still sleeping,
And the purple that colors you
The blood she shed comes to you.
So is it true that everything
May thus be trampled underfoot,
The rock where the eagle lands,
Like the leaf of the rose
Who falls and dies in our paths?
Does the common mother,
Once his work is done,
Randomly delivers the material,
Like the thought of forgetting?
Does the bitter turmoil
Throw the pearl to the lapidary
So that he crushes it without ceremony?
Does the vulgar absurd
Can dishonor everything on earth
At the whim of a copper or a mason?

Alfred de Musset

The beauty of a photograph is made up of three essential angles: the frame, the brightness and the sound. Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow. Work by Gokhan Altintas Photography produced in his studios in Versailles.

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Red, White, Yellow

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