This is an archive copy of wikilivres.ca as of 18 February 2017 (from the WikiTeam dump). The original site is closed.
Obsession: Difference between revisions
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
imported>Zephyrus create |
imported>Eclecticology No edit summary |
||
| Line 2: | Line 2: | ||
|title = [[The Flowers of Evil]] | |title = [[The Flowers of Evil]] | ||
|author = Charles Baudelaire | |author = Charles Baudelaire | ||
|translator= | |translator= Roy Campbell | ||
|section = Obsession | |section = Obsession | ||
|previous = | |previous = | ||
|next = | |next = | ||
|notes = [[fr.ws:Obsession|Obsession]]. | |notes = [[fr.ws:Obsession|Obsession]]. From ''Poems of Baudelaire'' (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952), as presented at http://fleursdumal.org | ||
}} | }} | ||
<div class="verse"> | <div class="verse"> | ||
<poem> | <poem> | ||
You forests, like cathedrals, are my dread: | |||
You roar like | You roar like organs. Our curst hearts, like cells | ||
Where death forever rattles on the bed, | |||
Echo your de Profundis as it swells. | |||
My spirit hates you, Ocean! sees, and loathes | |||
Its tumults in your own. Of men defeated | |||
The bitter laugh, that's full of sobs and oaths, | |||
Is in your own tremendously repeated. | |||
How you would please me without your stars, | How you would please me, Night! without your stars | ||
Which speak a foreign dialect, that jars | |||
On one who seeks the void, the black, the bare. | |||
Yet even your darkest shade a canvas forms | |||
Whereon my eye must multiply in swarms | |||
Familiar looks of shapes no longer there. | |||
</poem> | </poem> | ||
</div> | </div> | ||
[[Category:Works originally in French]] | [[Category:Works originally in French]] | ||
{{PD-pma|1957}} | |||
{{ | |||
Latest revision as of 17:37, 21 May 2012
| The Flowers of Evil ~ Obsession written by Charles Baudelaire translated by Roy Campbell |
| Obsession. From Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952), as presented at http://fleursdumal.org | Link to further information |
You forests, like cathedrals, are my dread:
You roar like organs. Our curst hearts, like cells
Where death forever rattles on the bed,
Echo your de Profundis as it swells.
My spirit hates you, Ocean! sees, and loathes
Its tumults in your own. Of men defeated
The bitter laugh, that's full of sobs and oaths,
Is in your own tremendously repeated.
How you would please me, Night! without your stars
Which speak a foreign dialect, that jars
On one who seeks the void, the black, the bare.
Yet even your darkest shade a canvas forms
Whereon my eye must multiply in swarms
Familiar looks of shapes no longer there.
|
Works by this author are in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 68 years or less. cs | de | en | eo | es | fr | he | pl | ru | zh |