Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire (moboreader TXT) 📖

o’er her mighty limbs,

And climb the slopes of her enormous knees,

Or in summer when the scorching sunlight streams

 

Across the country, to recline at ease,

And slumber in the shadow of her breast

Like an hamlet ‘neath the mountain-crest.

 

Hymn to Beauty

 

O Beauty! dost thou generate from Heaven or from Hell?

Within thy glance, so diabolic and divine,

Confusedly both wickedness and goodness dwell,

And hence one might compare thee unto sparkling wine.

 

Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars,

Thy perfumes, as upon a sultry night exhale,

Thy kiss a philter, and thy mouth a Grecian vase,

That renders heroes cowardly and infants hale.

 

Yea, art thou from the planets, or the fiery womb?

The demon follows in thy train, with magic fraught,

Thou scatter’st seeds haphazardly of joy and doom,

Thou govern’st everything, but answer’st unto nought.

 

O Loveliness! thou spurnest corpses with delight,

Among thy jewels, Horror hath such charms for thee,

And Murder ‘mid thy mostly cherished trinklets bright,

Upon thy massive bosom dances amorously.

 

The blinded, fluttering moth towards the candle flies,

Then frizzles, falls, and falters” Blessings unto thee”

The panting swain that o’er his beauteous mistress sighs,

Seems like the Sick, that stroke their gravestones lovingly.

 

What matter, if thou comest from the Heavens or Hell,

O Beauty, frightful ghoul, ingenuous and obscure!

So long thine eyes, thy smile, to me the way can tell

Towards that Infinite I love, but never saw.

 

From God or Satan? Angel, Mermaid, Proserpine?

What matter if thou makest blithe, voluptuous sprite

With rhythms, perfumes, visions O mine only queen!

The universe less hideous and the hours less trite.

 

Exotic Perfume

 

When, with closed eyes, on a hot afternoon,

The scent of thine ardent breast I inhale,

Celestial vistas my spirit assail;

Caressed by the flames of an endless sun.

 

A langorous island, where Nature abounds

With exotic trees and luscious fruit;

And with men whose bodies are slim and astute,

And with women whose frankness delights and astounds.

 

By thy perfume enticed to this region remote,

A port I see, laden with mast and with boat,

Still wearied and torn by the distant brine;

 

While the tamarisk-odours that dreamily throng

The air, round my slumberous senses intwine,

And mix, in my soul, with the mariners’ song.

 

La Chevelure

 

O fleece, that foams down unto the shoulders bare!

O curls, O scents which lovely languidness exhale!

Delight! to fill this alcove’s sombre atmosphere

With memories, sleeping deep within this tress of hair,

I’ll wave it in the evening breezes like a veil!

 

The shores of Africa, and Asia’s burning skies,

A world forgotten, distant, nearly dead and spent,

Within thy depths, O aromatic forest! lies.

And like to spirits floating unto melodies,

Mine own, Beloved! glides within thy sacred scent.

 

There I will hasten, where the trees and humankind

With languor lull beside the hot and silent sea;

Strong tresses bear me, be to me the waves and wind 1

Within thy fragrance lies a dazzling dream confined

Of sails and masts and flames O lake of ebony!

 

A loudly echoing harbour, where my soul may hold

To quaff, the silver cup of colours, scents and sounds,

Wherein the vessels glide upon a sea of gold,

And stretch their mighty arms, the glory to enfold

Of virgin skies, where never-ending heat abounds.

 

I’ll plunge my brow, enamoured with voluptuousness

Within this darkling ocean of infinitude,

Until my subtle spirit, which thy waves caress,

Shall find you once again, O fertile weariness;

Unending lullabye of perfumed lassitude!

 

Ye tresses blue recess of strange and sombre shades,

Ye make the azure of the starry Realm immense;

Upon the downy beeches, by your curls’ cascades,

Among your mingling fragrances, my spirit wades

To cull the musk and cocoa-nut and lotus scents.

 

Long foraye my hand, within thy heavy mane,

Shall scatter rubies, pearls, sapphires eternally,

And thus my soul’s desire for thee shall never wane;

For art not thou the oasis where I dream and drain

With draughts profound, the golden wine of memory?

 

Sonnet XXVIII

 

With pearly robes that wave within the wind,

Even when she walks, she seems to dance,

Like swaying serpents round those wands entwined

Which fakirs ware in rhythmic elegance.

 

So like the desert’s Blue, and the sands remote,

Both, deaf to mortal suffering and to strife,

Or like the sea-weeds ‘neath the waves that float,

Indifferently she moulds her budding life.

 

Her polished eyes are made of minerals bright,

And in her mien, symbolical and cold,

Wherein an angel mingles with a sphinx of old,

 

Where all is gold, and steel, and gems, and light,

There shines, just like a useless star eternally,

The sterile woman’s frigid majesty.

 

Posthumous Remorse

 

Ah, when thou shalt slumber, my darkling love,

Beneath a black marble-made statuette,

And when thou’lt have nought for thy house or alcove,

But a cavernous den and a damp oubliette.

 

When the tomb-stone, oppressing thy timorous breast,

And thy hips drooping sweetly with listless decay,

The pulse and desires of mine heart shall arrest,

And thy feet from pursuing their adventurous way,

 

Then the grave, that dark friend of my limitless dreams

(For the grave ever readeth the poet aright),

Amid those long nights, which no slumber redeems

 

‘Twill query ” What use to thee, incomplete spright

That thou ne’er hast unfathomed the tears of the dead”?

Then the worms will gnaw deep at thy body, like Dread.

 

The Balcony

 

Oh, Mother of Memories! Mistress of Mistresses!

Oh, thou all my pleasures, oh, thou all my prayers!

Can’st thou remember those luscious caresses,

The charm of the hearth and the sweet evening airs?

Oh, Mother of Memories, Mistress of Mistresses!

 

Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal,

And those roseate nights with their vaporous wings,

How calm was thy breast and how good was thy soul,

‘Twas then we uttered imperishable things,

Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal.

 

How lovely the suns on those hot, autumn nights!

How vast were the heavens! and the heart how hale!

As I leaned towards you oh, my Queen of Delights,

The scent of thy blood I seemed to inhale.

How lovely the sun on those hot, autumn nights!

 

The shadows of night-time grew dense like a pall,

And deep through the darkness thine eyes I divined,

And I drank of thy breath oh sweetness, oh gall,

And thy feet in my brotherly hands reclined,

The shadows of Night-time grew dense like a pall.

 

I know how to call forth those moments so dear,

And to live my Past laid on thy knees once more,

For where should I seek for thy beauties but here

In thy langorous heart and thy body so pure?

I know how to call forth those moments so dear.

 

Those perfumes, those infinite kisses and sighs,

Are they born in some gulf to our plummets denied?

Like rejuvenate suns that mount up to the skies,

That first have been cleansed in the depths of the tide;

Oh, perfumes! oh, infinite kisses and sighs!

 

The Possessed One

 

The sun is enveloped in crape! like it,

 

Moon of my Life! wrap thyself up in shade;

At will, smoke or slumber, be silent, be staid,

And dive deep down in Dispassion’s dark pit.

 

I cherish thee thus! But if ‘tis thy mood,

Like a star that from out its penumbra appears,

To float in the regions where madness careers,

 

Fair dagger! burst forth from thy sheath! ‘tis good.

 

Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown!

Or kindle desire by the looks of some clown!

Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame!

 

Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine,

There is not a nerve in my trembling frame

But cries, “I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!”

 

Semper Eadem

 

“From whence it comes, you ask, this gloom acute,

Like waves that o’er the rocky headland fall?”

When once our hearts have gathered in their fruit,

To live is a curse! a secret known to all,

 

A grief, quite simple, nought mysterious,

And like your joy for all, both loud and shrill,

Nay cease to clammour, be not e’er so curious!

And yet although your voice is sweet, be still!

 

Be still, O soul, with rapture ever rife!

O mouth, with the childish smile! Far more than Life,

The subtle bonds of Death around us twine.

 

Let let my heart, the wine of falsehood drink,

And dream-like, deep within your fair eyes sink,

And in the shade of thy lashes long recline!

 

All Entire

 

The Demon, in my lofty vault,

This morning came to visit me,

And striving me to find at fault,

He said, ” Fain would I know of thee;

 

“Among the many beauteous things,

All which her subtle grace proclaim

Among the dark and rosy things,

Which go to make her charming frame,

 

“Which is the sweetest unto thee”?

My soul! to Him thou didst retort

“Since all with her is destiny,

Of preference there can be nought.

 

When all transports me with delight,

If aught deludes I can not know,

She either lulls one like the Night,

Or dazzles like the Morning-glow.

 

That harmony is too divine,

Which governs all her body fair,

For powerless mortals to define

In notes the many concords there.

 

O mystic metamorphosis

Of all my senses blent in one!

Her voice a beauteous perfume is,

Her breath makes music, chaste and wan.

 

Sonnet XLIII

 

What sayest thou, to-night, poor soul so drear,

What sayest heart erewhile engulfed in gloom,

To the very lovely, very chaste, and very dear,

Whose god-like look hath made thee to re-bloom?

 

To her, with pride we chant an echoing Hymn,

For nought can touch the sweetness of her sway;

Her flesh ethereal as the seraphim,

Her eyes with robe of light our souls array.

 

And be it in the night, or solitude,

Among the streets or ‘mid the multitude,

Her shadow, torch-like, dances in the air,

 

And murmurs, “I, the Beautiful proclaim

That for my sake, alone ye love the Fair;

I am the Guardian Angel, Muse and Dame!”

 

The Living Torch

 

They stand before me now, those eyes that shine,

No doubt inspired by an Angel wise;

They stand, those God-like brothers that are mine,

And pour their diamond fires in mine eyes.

 

From all transgressions, from all snares, they save,

Towards the Path of Joy they guide my ways;

They are my servants, and I am their slave;

And all my soul, this living torch obeys.

 

Ye charming Eyes ye have those mystic beams,

Of candles, burning in full day; the sun

Awakes, yet kills not their fantastic gleams;

 

Ye sing the Awak’ning, they the dark oblivion;

The Awak’ning of my spirit ye proclaim,

O stars no sun can ever kill your flame!

 

The Spiritual Dawn

 

When the morning white and rosy breaks,

With the gnawing Ideal, upon the debauchee,

By the power of a strange decree,

Within the sotted beast an Angel wakes.

 

The mental Heaven’s inaccessible blue,

For wearied mortals that still dream and mourn,

Expands and sinks; towards the chasm drawn.

Thus, cherished goddess, Being pure and true

 

Upon the rests of foolish orgy-nights

Thine image, more sublime, more pink, more clear,

Before my staring eyes is ever there.

 

The sun has darkened all the candle lights;

And thus thy spectre like the immortal sun,

Is ever victorious thou resplendent one!

 

Evening Harmony

 

The hour approacheth, when, as their stems incline,

The flowers evaporate like an incense urn,