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Evening harmony: Difference between revisions
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{{poem | {{TextQuality|75%}}{{poem | ||
|title=[[The Flowers of Evil]] | |title = [[The Flowers of Evil]] | ||
|author=Charles Baudelaire | |author = Charles Baudelaire | ||
|section=Harmony of Evening | |section = Harmony of Evening | ||
|previous= | |previous = | ||
|next= | |next = | ||
|notes=Translation [[A. S. Kline]] | |notes = Translation [[A. S. Kline]] | ||
}} | }} | ||
<div class="verse"> | <div class="verse"> | ||
<poem> | |||
Now those days arrive when, stem throbbing, | |||
each flower sheds its fragrance like a censer: | |||
sounds and scents twine in the evening air: | |||
languorous dizziness, Melancholy dancing! | |||
: | Each flower sheds its fragrance like a censer: | ||
the violin quivers, a heart that’s suffering: | |||
languorous dizziness, Melancholy dancing! | |||
the sky is lovely, sad like a huge altar. | |||
The violin quivers, a heart that’s suffering: | |||
a heart, hating the vast black void, so tender! | |||
the sky is lovely, sad like a huge altar: | |||
the sun is drowned, in its own blood congealing. | |||
A heart, hating the vast black void, so tender: | |||
each trace of the luminous past it’s gathering! | |||
The sun is drowned, in its own blood congealing… | |||
A vessel of the host, your memory shines there. | |||
</poem> | |||
</div> | </div> | ||
Revision as of 11:36, 16 January 2009
| The Flowers of Evil ~ Harmony of Evening written by Charles Baudelaire |
| Translation A. S. Kline | Link to further information |
Now those days arrive when, stem throbbing,
each flower sheds its fragrance like a censer:
sounds and scents twine in the evening air:
languorous dizziness, Melancholy dancing!
Each flower sheds its fragrance like a censer:
the violin quivers, a heart that’s suffering:
languorous dizziness, Melancholy dancing!
the sky is lovely, sad like a huge altar.
The violin quivers, a heart that’s suffering:
a heart, hating the vast black void, so tender!
the sky is lovely, sad like a huge altar:
the sun is drowned, in its own blood congealing.
A heart, hating the vast black void, so tender:
each trace of the luminous past it’s gathering!
The sun is drowned, in its own blood congealing…
A vessel of the host, your memory shines there.
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