The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire Part 9

LA BEATRICE.

In a burnt, ashen land, where no herb grew, I to the winds my cries of anguish threw; And in my thoughts, in that sad place apart, p.r.i.c.ked gently with the poignard o'er my heart.

Then in full noon above my head a cloud Descended tempest-swollen, and a crowd Of wild, lascivious spirits huddled there, The cruel and curious demons of the air, Who coldly to consider me began; Then, as a crowd jeers some unhappy man, Exchanging gestures, winking with their eyes-- I heard a laughing and a whispering rise:

"Let us at leisure contemplate this clown, This shadow of Hamlet aping Hamlet's frown, With wandering eyes and hair upon the wind.

Is't not a pity that this empty mind, This tramp, this actor out of work, this droll, Because he knows how to a.s.sume a role Should dream that eagles and insects, streams and woods, Stand still to hear him chaunt his dolorous moods?

Even unto us, who made these ancient things, The fool his public lamentation sings."

With pride as lofty as the towering cloud, I would have stilled these clamouring demons loud, And turned in scorn my sovereign head away Had I not seen--O sight to dim the day!-- There in the middle of the troupe obscene The proud and peerless beauty of my Queen!

She laughed with them at all my dark distress, And gave to each in turn a vile caress.

THE SOUL OF WINE.

One eve in the bottle sang the soul of wine: "Man, unto thee, dear disinherited, I sing a song of love and light divine-- Prisoned in gla.s.s beneath my seals of red.

"I know thou labourest on the hill of fire, In sweat and pain beneath a flaming sun, To give the life and soul my vines desire, And I am grateful for thy labours done.

"For I find joys unnumbered when I lave The throat of man by travail long outworn, And his hot bosom is a sweeter grave Of sounder sleep than my cold caves forlorn.

"Hearest thou not the echoing Sabbath sound?

The hope that whispers in my trembling breast?

Thy elbows on the table! gaze around; Glorify me with joy and be at rest.

"To thy wife's eyes I'll bring their long-lost gleam, I'll bring back to thy child his strength and light, To him, life's fragile athlete I will seem Rare oil that firms his muscles for the fight.

"I flow in man's heart as ambrosia flows; The grain the eternal Sower casts in the sod-- From our first loves the first fair verse arose, Flower-like aspiring to the heavens and G.o.d!"

THE WINE OF LOVERS.

s.p.a.ce rolls to-day her splendour round!

Unbridled, spurless, without bound, Mount we upon the wings of wine For skies fantastic and divine!

Let us, like angels tortured by Some wild delirious phantasy, Follow the far-off mirage born In the blue crystal of the morn.

And gently balanced on the wing Of the wild whirlwind we will ride, Rejoicing with the joyous thing.

My sister, floating side by side, Fly we unceasing whither gleams The distant heaven of my dreams.

THE DEATH OF LOVERS.

There shall be couches whence faint odours rise, Divans like sepulchres, deep and profound; Strange flowers that bloomed beneath diviner skies The death-bed of our love shall breathe around.

And guarding their last embers till the end, Our hearts shall be the torches of the shrine, And their two leaping flames shall fade and blend In the twin mirrors of your soul and mine.

And through the eve of rose and mystic blue A beam of love shall pa.s.s from me to you, Like a long sigh charged with a last farewell;

And later still an angel, flinging wide The gates, shall bring to life with joyful spell The tarnished mirrors and the flames that died.

THE DEATH OF THE POOR.

Death is consoler and Death brings to life; The end of all, the solitary hope; We, drunk with Death's elixir, face the strife, Take heart, and mount till eve the weary slope.

Across the storm, the h.o.a.r-frost, and the snow, Death on our dark horizon pulses clear; Death is the famous hostel we all know, Where we may rest and sleep and have good cheer.

Death is an angel whose magnetic palms Bring dreams of ecstasy and slumberous calms To smooth the beds of naked men and poor.

Death is the mystic granary of G.o.d; The poor man's purse; his fatherland of yore; The Gate that opens into heavens un trod!

THE BENEDICTION.

When by the high decree of powers supreme, The Poet came into this world outworn, She who had borne him, in a ghastly dream, Clenched blasphemous hands at G.o.d, and cried in scorn:

"O rather had I borne a writhing knot Of unclean vipers, than my breast should nurse This vile derision, of my joy begot To be my expiation and my curse!

"Since of all women thou hast made of me Unto my husband a disgust and shame; Since I may not cast this monstrosity, Like an old love-epistle, to the flame;

"I will pour out thine overwhelming hate On this the accursed weapon of thy spite; This stunted tree I will so desecrate That not one tainted bud shall see the light!"

So foaming with the foam of hate and shame, Blind unto G.o.d's design inexorable, With her own hands she fed the purging flame To crimes maternal consecrate in h.e.l.l.

Meanwhile beneath an Angel's care unseen The child disowned grows drunken with the sun; His food and drink, though they be poor and mean, With streams of nectar and ambrosia run.

Speaking to clouds and playing with the wind, With joy he sings the sad Way of the Rood; His shadowing pilgrim spirit weeps behind To see him gay as birds are in the wood.