Charles Baudelaire

THE Demon, in my chamber high, This morning came to visit me, And, thinking he would find some fault, He whispered: “I would know of thee Among the many lovely things That make the

I AM as lovely as a dream in stone, And this my heart where each finds death in turn, Inspires the poet with a love as lone As clay eternal and as taciturn. Swan-white

Often, to amuse themselves, the crew of the ship Would fell an albatross, the largest of sea birds, Indolent companions of their trip As they slide across the deep sea’s bitters. Scarcely had they

ANGEL of gaiety, have you tasted grief? Shame and remorse and sobs and weary spite, And the vague terrors of the fearful night That crush the heart up like a crumpled leaf? Angel of

My youth was nothing but a black storm Crossed now and then by brilliant suns. The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores Nothing’s left of the fruit my garden held once. I

THOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, The eve is thine which even now drops down, To carry peace or care to human will, And in a misty veil enfolds the town.

Mon enfant, ma soeur, Songe à la douceur, D’aller là-bas, vivre ensemble! Aimer à loisir, Aimer et mourir, Au pays qui te ressemble! Les soleils mouillés, De ces ciels brouillés, Pour mon esprit ont

HERE is the chamber consecrate, Wherein this maiden delicate, And enigmatically sedate, Fans herself while the moments creep, Upon her cushions half-asleep, And hears the fountains plash and weep. Dorothy’s chamber undefiled. The winds

Nature is a temple where the living pillars Let go sometimes a blurred speech- A Forest of symbols passes through a man’s reach And observes him with a familiar regard. Like the distant echoes

Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte, L’Espoir, dont l’éperon attisait ton ardeur, Ne veut plus t’enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur, Vieux cheval dont le pied à chaque obstacle bute. Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton

O SWARMING city, city full of dreams, Where in a full day the spectre walks and speaks; Mighty colossus, in your narrow veins My story flows as flows the rising sap. One morn, disputing

Rappelez-vous l’objet que nous vîmes, mon âme, Ce beau matin d’été si doux : Au détour d’un sentier une charogne infame Sur un lit semé de cailloux, Les jambes en l’air, comme une femme

WHITE maiden with the russet hair, Whose garments, through their holes, declare That poverty is part of you, And beauty too. To me, a sorry bard and mean, Your youthful beauty, frail and lean,

WHEN with closed eyes in autumn’s eves of gold I breathe the burning odours of your breast, Before my eyes the hills of happy rest Bathed in the sun’s monotonous fires, unfold. Islands of

MUSIC doth uplift me like a sea Towards my planet pale, Then through dark fogs or heaven’s infinity I lift my wandering sail. With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee, And through the

ANDROMACHE, I think of you! The stream, The poor, sad mirror where in bygone days Shone all the majesty of your widowed grief, The lying Simoпs flooded by your tears, Made all my fertile

WHERE’ER he be, on water or on land, Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold; One of Christ’s own, or of Cythera’s band, Shadowy beggar or Crњsus rich with gold; Citizen, peasant, student,

To bear a weight that cannot be borne, Sisyphus, even you aren’t that strong, Although your heart cannot be torn Time is short and Art is long. Far from celebrated sepulchers Toward a solitary

THERE are some powerful odours that can pass Out of the stoppard flagon; even glass To them is porous. Oft when some old box Brought from the East is opened and the locks And

UNDER the overhanging yews, The dark owls sit in solemn state, Like stranger gods; by twos and twos Their red eyes gleam. They meditate. Motionless thus they sit and dream Until that melancholy hour

I’ve been home a long time among the vast porticos, Which the mariner sun has tinged with a million fires, Whose grandest pillars, upright, majestic and cold Render them the same, this evening, as

La sottise, l’erreur, le péché, la lésine, Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps, Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords, Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine. Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;