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Charles Baudelaire, His Life
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Поля
(La Musique)
Music can lead me far, and far
O'er mystical sad seas,
Where burns my pale, high-hanging star
Among the mysteries
Of Pleiades.
My lungs are taut of sweet salt air;
The pregnant sail-cloths climb
The long, gloom-gathering ocean stair.
I don the chord-shot cloak of Time
While the waves chime!
Fierce winds and sombre tempests come
And bludgeon heavily
All our vibrating timbers … drum
Most passionately. O Sea!
Liberate me!
So shall thy mighty void express
Both depths and surface. There
Opens thy magic mirror; men confess
To Thee their sick despair
… No otherwhere.
THE GAME
(Le jeu)
In faded chairs old courtesans
With painted eyebrows leer.
The stones and metal rattle in
Each dry and withering ear,
As lackadaisical they loll,
And preen themselves, and peer.
Their mumbling gums and lipless masks
– Or lead-white lips – are prest
Around the table of green cloth;
And withered hands, possest
Of Hell's own fever, vainly search
In empty purse or breast.
Beneath the low, stained ceiling hang
Enormous lamps, which shine
On the sad foreheads of great poets
Glutted with things divine,
Who throng this ante-room of hell
To find the anodyne.
I see these things as in a dream,
With the clairvoyant eye,
And in a cottier of the den
A crouching man descry;
A silent, cold, and envying man
Who watches. It is I!
I envy those old harlots' greed
And gloomy gaiety;
The gripping passion of the game,
The fierce avidity
With which men stake their honour for
A ruined chastity.
I dare not envy many a man:
Who runs his life-race well;
Whose brave, undaunted peasant blood
Death's menace cannot quell.
Abhorring nothingness, and strong
Upon the lip of Hell.
THE FALSE MONK
(Le mauvais moine)
Upon the tall old cloister walls there were
Some painted frescoes showing Truth; so we,
Seeing them thus so holy and so fair,
Might for a space forget austerity.
For when the Lord Christ's seeds were blossoming,
Full many a simple, pious brother found
Death but a painted phantom with no sting,
– And took for studio a burial-ground.
But my soul is a sepulchre, where I,
A false Franciscan, dwell eternally,
And no walls glow with pictured mysteries.
When shall I rise from living death, to take
My pain as rich material, and make
Work for my hands, with pleasure for mine eyes?
AN IDEAL OF LOVE
(L'Idéal)
I hate those beauties in old prints,
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