The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire Part 8

Not all the beauties in old prints vignetted, The worthless products of an outworn age, With slippered feet and fingers castanetted, The thirst of hearts like this heart can a.s.suage.

To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses, I leave his troupes of beauties sick and wan; I cannot find among these pale, pale roses, The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.

Lady Macbeth, the lovely star of crime, The Greek poet's dream born in a northern clime-- Ah, she could quench my dark heart's deep desiring;

Or Michelangelo's dark daughter Night, In a strange posture dreamily admiring Her beauty fas.h.i.+oned for a giant's delight!

MIST AND RAIN.

Autumns and winters, springs of mire and rain, Seasons of sleep, I sing your praises loud, For thus I love to wrap my heart and brain In some dim tomb beneath a vapoury shroud

In the wide plain where revels the cold wind, Through long nights when the weatherc.o.c.k whirls round, More free than in warm summer day my mind Lifts wide her raven pinions from the ground.

Unto a heart filled with funereal things That since old days h.o.a.r frosts have gathered on, Naught is more sweet, O pallid, queenly springs,

Than the long pageant of your shadows wan, Unless it be on moonless eves to weep On some chance bed and rock our griefs to sleep.

SUNSET.

Fair is the sun when first he flames above, Flinging his joy down in a happy beam; And happy he who can salute with love The sunset far more glorious than a dream.

Flower, stream, and furrow!--I have seen them all In the sun's eye swoon like one trembling heart-- Though it be late let us with speed depart To catch at least one last ray ere it fall!

But I pursue the fading G.o.d in vain, For conquering Night makes firm her dark domain, Mist and gloom fall, and terrors glide between,

And graveyard odours in the shadow swim, And my faint footsteps on the marsh's rim, Bruise the cold snail and crawling toad unseen.

THE CORPSE.

Remember, my Beloved, what thing we met By the roadside on that sweet summer day; There on a gra.s.sy couch with pebbles set, A loathsome body lay.

The wanton limbs stiff-stretched into the air, Steaming with exhalations vile and dank, In ruthless cynic fas.h.i.+on had laid bare The swollen side and flank.

On this decay the sun shone hot from heaven As though with chemic heat to broil and burn, And unto Nature all that she had given A hundredfold return.

The sky smiled down upon the horror there As on a flower that opens to the day; So awful an infection smote the air, Almost you swooned away.

The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side, Whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream, That ran along these tatters of life's pride With a liquescent gleam.

And like a wave the maggots rose and fell, The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife: It seemed as though a vague breath came to swell And multiply with life

The hideous corpse. From all this living world A music as of wind and water ran, Or as of grain in rhythmic motion swirled By the swift winnower's fan.

And then the vague forms like a dream died out, Or like some distant scene that slowly falls Upon the artist's canvas, that with doubt He only half recalls.

A homeless dog behind the boulders lay And watched us both with angry eyes forlorn, Waiting a chance to come and take away The morsel she had torn.

And you, even you, will be like this drear thing, A vile infection man may not endure; Star that I yearn to! Sun that lights my spring!

O pa.s.sionate and pure!

Yes, such will you be, Queen of every grace!

When the last sacramental words are said; And beneath gra.s.s and flowers that lovely face Moulders among the dead.

Then, O Beloved, whisper to the worm That crawls up to devour you with a kiss, That I still guard in memory the dear form Of love that comes to this!

AN ALLEGORY.

Here is a woman, richly clad and fair, Who in her wine dips her long, heavy hair; Love's claws, and that sharp poison which is sin, Are dulled against the granite of her skin.

Death she defies, Debauch she smiles upon, For their sharp scythe-like talons every one Pa.s.s by her in their all-destructive play; Leaving her beauty till a later day.

G.o.ddess she walks; sultana in her leisure; She has Mohammed's faith that heaven is pleasure, And bids all men forget the world's alarms Upon her breast, between her open arms.

She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid, Without whom the world's onward dream would fade, That bodily beauty is the supreme gift Which may from every sin the terror lift.

h.e.l.l she ignores, and Purgatory defies; And when black Night shall roll before her eyes, She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn, Without remorse or hate--as one new born.

THE ACCURSED.

Like pensive herds at rest upon the sands, These to the sea-horizons turn their eyes; Out of their folded feet and clinging hands Bitter sharp tremblings and soft languors rise.

Some tread the thicket by the babbling stream, Their hearts with untold secrets ill at ease; Calling the lover of their childhood's dream, They wound the green bark of the shooting trees.

Others like sisters wander, grave and slow, Among the rocks haunted by spectres thin, Where Antony saw as larvae surge and flow The veined bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s that tempted him to sin.

Some, when the resinous torch of burning wood Flares in lost pagan caverns dark and deep, Call thee to quench the fever in their blood, Bacchus, who singest old remorse to sleep!

Then there are those the scapular bedights, Whose long white vestments hide the whip's red stain, Who mix, in sombre woods on lonely nights, The foam of pleasure with the tears of pain.

O virgins, demons, monsters, martyrs! ye Who scorn whatever actual appears; Saints, satyrs, seekers of Infinity, So full of cries, so full of bitter tears;

Te whom my soul has followed into h.e.l.l, I love and pity, O sad sisters mine, Tour thirsts unquenched, your pains no tongue can tell, And your great hearts, those urns of love divine!