The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire Part 5

They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: "Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?"

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

Pa.s.sion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

THE REMORSE OF THE DEAD.

O shadowy Beauty mine, when thou shalt sleep In the deep heart of a black marble tomb; When thou for mansion and for bower shalt keep Only one rainy cave of hollow gloom;

And when the stone upon thy trembling breast, And on thy straight sweet body's supple grace, Crushes thy will and keeps thy heart at rest, And holds those feet from their adventurous race;

Then the deep grave, who shares my reverie, (For the deep grave is aye the poet's friend) During long nights when sleep is far from thee,

Shall whisper: "Ah, thou didst not comprehend The dead wept thus, thou woman frail and weak"-- And like remorse the worm shall gnaw thy cheek.

THE GHOST.

Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove I will return to thy alcove.

And glide upon the night to thee, Treading the shadows silently.

And I will give to thee, my own, Kisses as icy as the moon, And the caresses of a snake Cold gliding in the th.o.r.n.y brake.

And when returns the livid morn Thou shalt find all my place forlorn And chilly, till the falling night.

Others would rule by tenderness Over thy life and youthfulness, But I would conquer thee by fright!

TO A MADONNA.

(_An Ex-Voto in the Spanish taste_.)

Madonna, mistress. I would build for thee An altar deep in the sad soul of me; And in the darkest corner of my heart, From mortal hopes and mocking eyes apart, Carve of enamelled blue and gold a shrine For thee to stand erect in, Image divine!

And with a mighty Crown thou shalt be crowned Wrought of the gold of my smooth Verse, set round With starry crystal rhymes; and I will make, O mortal maid, a Mantle for thy sake, And weave it of my jealousy, a gown Heavy, barbaric, stiff, and weighted down With my distrust, and broider round the hem Not pearls, but all my tears in place of them.

And then thy wavering, trembling robe shall be All the desires that rise and fall in me From mountain-peaks to valleys of repose, Kissing thy lovely body's white and rose.

For thy humiliated feet divine, Of my Respect I'll make thee Slippers fine Which, prisoning them within a gentle fold,

Shall keep their imprint like a faithful mould.

And if my art, unwearying and discreet, Can make no Moon of Silver for thy feet To have for Footstool, then thy heel shall rest Upon the snake that gnaws within my breast, Victorious Queen of whom our hope is born!

And thou shalt trample down and make a scorn Of the vile reptile swollen up with hate.

And thou shalt see my thoughts, all consecrate, Like candles set before thy flower-strewn shrine, O Queen of Virgins, and the taper-s.h.i.+ne Shall glimmer star-like in the vault of blue, With eyes of flame for ever watching you.

While all the love and wors.h.i.+p in my sense Will be sweet smoke of myrrh and frankincense.

Ceaselessly up to thee, white peak of snow, My stormy spirit will in vapours go!

And last, to make thy drama all complete, That love and cruelty may mix and meet, I, thy remorseful torturer, will take All the Seven Deadly Sins, and from them make In darkest joy, Seven Knives, cruel-edged and keen, And like a juggler choosing, O my Queen, That spot profound whence love and mercy start, I'll plunge them all within thy panting heart!

THE SKY.

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 Crsus rich with gold;

Citizen, peasant, student, tramp; whate'er His little brain may be, alive or dead; Man knows the fear of mystery everywhere, And peeps, with trembling glances, overhead.

The heaven above? A strangling cavern wall; The lighted ceiling of a music-hall Where every actor treads a b.l.o.o.d.y soil--

The hermit's hope; the terror of the sot; The sky: the black lid of the mighty pot Where the vast human generations boil!

SPLEEN.

I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins Flows aged blood; who rules a land of rains; Who, young in years, is old in all distress; Who flees good counsel to find weariness Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird; Whose weary face emotion moves no more E'en when his people die before his door.

His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile; The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good, Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb.

The sage who takes his gold essays in vain To purge away the old corrupted strain, His baths of blood, that in the days of old The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold, Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains, For green Lethean water fills his veins.

THE OWLS.

Under the overhanging yews, The dark owls sit in solemn state.

Like stranger G.o.ds; by twos and twos Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream Until that melancholy hour When, with the sun's last fading gleam, The nightly shades a.s.sume their power.

From their still att.i.tude the wise Will learn with terror to despise All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade, Carries the memory in his breast, Of each unhappy journey made.