The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire Part 6

BIEN LOIN D'ICI.

Here is the chamber consecrate, Wherein this maiden delicate, And enigmatically sedate,

Fans herself while the moments creep, Upon her cus.h.i.+ons half-asleep, And hears the fountains plash and weep.

Dorothy's chamber undefiled.

The winds and waters sing afar Their song of sighing strange and wild To lull to sleep the petted child.

From head to foot with subtle care, Slaves have perfumed her delicate skin With odorous oils and benzoin.

And flowers faint in a corner there.

MUSIC.

Music doth oft 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 cordage wail, I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all pa.s.sions known To s.h.i.+ps before the breeze; Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pa.s.s the abysmal seas That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair Of my despair!

CONTEMPLATION.

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.

While the vile mortals of the mult.i.tude, By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone

Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; And from the water, smiling through her tears,

Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.

TO A BROWN BEGGAR-MAID.

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, With summer freckles here and there, Is sweet and fair.

Your sabots tread the roads of chance, And not one queen of old romance Carried her velvet shoes and lace With half your grace.

In place of tatters far too short Let the proud garments worn at Court Fall down with rustling fold and pleat About your feet;

In place of stockings, worn and old, Let a keen dagger all of gold Gleam in your garter for the eyes Of roues wise;

Let ribbons carelessly untied Reveal to us the radiant pride Of your white bosom purer far Than any star;

Let your white arms uncovered s.h.i.+ne.

Polished and smooth and half divine; And let your elfish fingers chase With riotous grace

The purest pearls that softly glow.

The sweetest sonnets of Belleau, Offered by gallants ere they fight For your delight;

And many fawning rhymers who Inscribe their first thin book to you Will contemplate upon the stair Your slipper fair;

And many a page who plays at cards, And many lords and many bards, Will watch your going forth, and burn For your return;

And you will count before your gla.s.s More kisses than the lily has; And more than one Valois will sigh When you pa.s.s by.

But meanwhile you are on the tramp, Begging your living in the damp, Wandering mean streets and alleys o'er, From door to door;

And s.h.i.+lling bangles in a shop Cause you with eager eyes to stop, And I, alas, have not a son To give to you.

Then go, with no more ornament, Pearl, diamond, or subtle scent, Than your own fragile naked grace And lovely face.

THE SWAN.

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 Simos flooded by your tears, Made all my fertile memory blossom forth As I pa.s.sed by the new-built Carrousel.

Old Paris is no more (a town, alas, Changes more quickly than man's heart may change); Yet in my mind I still can see the booths; The heaps of brick and rough-hewn capitals; The gra.s.s; the stones all over-green with moss; The _debris_, and t&e square-set heaps of tiles.

There a menagerie was once outspread; And there I saw, one morning at the hour When toil awakes beneath the cold, clear sky, And the road roars upon the silent air, A swan who had escaped his cage, and walked On the dry pavement with his webby feet, And trailed his spotless plumage on the ground.

And near a waterless stream the piteous swan Opened his beak, and bathing in the dust His nervous wings, he cried (his heart the while Filled with a vision of his own fair lake): "O water, when then wilt thou come in rain?

Lightning, when wilt thou glitter?"

Sometimes yet I see the hapless bird--strange, fatal myth-- Like him that Ovid writes of, lifting up Unto the cruelly blue, ironic heavens, With stretched, convulsive neck a thirsty face, As though he sent reproaches up to G.o.d!

II.

Paris may change; my melancholy is fixed.