Here, let me translate a little, in my crude way, from a poem at random:
Hello hello don't leave listen
to the grapevine without asking who died
and why he died
His death it's our business
the business of the Nation
on the back of all our medals his name
will be piously graven
like on the first goblets
of the noble newly-born
[From "Cagnes-Sur-Mer": the italics are in the original.]
A tragic hope permeates these lines — the birthfulness of death.
Sparrow reviews a book of French poetry he found for free at the thrift shop in Phoenicia.