Every Creature of the World, by Alain de Lille

The poem has been translated into a non-rhyming and a rhyming version.

Non-rhyming version

Every creature of the world
is like a book and picture
to us, and a mirror.
Of our life, of our death,
of our state, of our fate,
a faithful emblem.

The rose depicts our condition,
a fitting gloss of our state,
a reading of our life.
Which, while it blooms in the early morning,
the withered flower fades
in the evening’s old age.

Thus, the breathing flower expires
as it loses its color, wilting,
dying as it rises.
Both old and new,
both old man and girl,
the rose withers as it rises.

So the spring of human age,
in the early morning of youth,
blooms a little.
Yet this morning is driven away
by the evening of life, as it concludes
the twilight of life.

As its beauty speaks,
its splendor soon fades,
in the age in which it declines.
The flower becomes hay, the gem mud,
man ashes, as man pays tribute
to death.

Whose life, whose being,
pain, labor, and necessity
close life with death.
So death, life; grief, laughter;
shadow, day; harbor, waves;
morning is closed by evening.

First, it assaults us
bearing the face of death’s penalty,
death’s laborer.
It sets us to work,
it takes us into pain;
death is the conclusion.

Therefore, enclosed under this law,
read your state, man,
look at your being.
What you were before being born;
what you are now, what you will be,
carefully inspect.

Mourn the punishment, lament the guilt,
restrain your impulses, break your pride,
cast down your eyebrows.
The mind’s ruler and charioteer,
govern the mind, control the waves,
so they do not flow astray.

Rhyming version

Every creature of this world,
Like a book and painting unfurled,
Is a mirror for us to see.
Our life and our death,
Our state and our fate,
Faithful signs they be.

The rose paints our state,
Our status, a fitting glosa,
Our life’s very story.
Blooming in morning’s first light,
The faded flower takes flight,
In evening’s old glory.

The flower exhales its breath,
In pallor, it withers to death,
Both rising and dying.
Old and new together,
Aged and youthful tethered,
The rose fades while trying.

Thus, in life’s springtime bloom,
In youth’s early morning room,
A little it blossoms anew.
Yet life’s evening expels
This morning, as it quells,
Life’s twilight coming through.

As its beauty performs,
Its splendor soon transforms,
In the age that it flows.
Flower to hay, gem to clay,
Man to ash, as we pay
The debt that death bestows.

A life that must face,
Pain, labor, and the race,
To end with death’s embrace.
So death claims life, grief claims laughter,
Shadow conquers day, storms claim harbor,
Evening closes the morning after.

Upon us, death’s penalty first throws,
Its face a mask of suffering and woes,
A labor, death’s actor in our play.
It casts us into toil,
It takes us through turmoil,
Death is the final say.

So, under this law confined,
Read your state, oh human kind,
Reflect on your existence.
What you were before birth,
What you are now, your worth,
Inspect with persistence.

Mourn the punishment, lament the sin,
Restrain your urges, break pride within,
Set down your haughty brow.
Mind’s guide and charioteer,
Control your thoughts, steer clear,
Lest they stray, do not allow.