He is happy who, like Ulysses,
Has returned from a voyage of beauty,
Or like the hero who gained the golden fleece,
And has then come home, wise in the world´s ways,
To live with his family for the rest of his days.
When will I see again
The smoke rising from the chimneys
In my little village?
In which season will I see again
The garden walled round my humble house,
Which for me is a whole province and much more, much more?
The dwelling my forefathers raised is far more to me
Than the grand facades of the palaces of Rome,
And more than the hard marble here,
I love the delicate slate of home.
I love much more my Loire of France
Than the Latin Tiber river here.
More my little Lyré than the great Palatine,
And more than the sea air, the sweet air
Of that Anjou of mine.
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,
Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !
Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village
Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison,
Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,
Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup davantage ?
Plus me plait le séjour qu’ont bâti mes aïeux,
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,
Plus que le marbre dur me plait l’ardoise fine,
Plus mon Loire gaulois, que le Tibre latin,
Plus mon petit Lyré, que le mont Palatin,
Et plus que l’air marin la douceur angevine.
— Joachim du Bellay, Les Regrets, XXXI