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Semper Eadem: Difference between revisions
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|title = [[The Flowers of Evil]] | |title = [[The Flowers of Evil]] | ||
|author = Charles Baudelaire | |author = Charles Baudelaire | ||
|translator= | |translator= Roy Campbell | ||
|section = Semper Eadem | |section = Semper Eadem | ||
|previous = | |previous = | ||
|next = | |next = | ||
|notes = [[fr.ws:Semper eadem (1868)|Semper eadem]]. | |notes = [[fr.ws:Semper eadem (1868)|Semper eadem]]. From ''Poems of Baudelaire'' (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952), as presented at http://fleursdumal.org | ||
}} | }} | ||
<div class="verse"> | <div class="verse"> | ||
<poem> | <poem> | ||
"Whence," ask you, "does this strange new sadness flow | |||
Like rising tides on rocks, black, bare, and vast?" | |||
For human hearts, when vintage-time is past, | |||
To live is bad. That secret all men know — | |||
An obvious sorrow, with no mystery, shown, | |||
Clear as your joy, to everyone around. | |||
O curious one, seek nothing more profound, | |||
And, though your voice | And speak not, though your voice be sweet in tone. | ||
Hush, ignorant! Hush, soul that's still enraptured, | |||
And mouth of childish laughter! Neatly captured, | |||
Death pulls us, more than life, with subtle wile. | |||
Oh let my thought get drunk upon a lie, | |||
plunge as | And plunge, as in a dream, in either eye, | ||
And in their lashes' shadow sleep awhile! | |||
</poem> | </poem> | ||
</div> | </div> | ||
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[[Category:Works originally in French]] | [[Category:Works originally in French]] | ||
[[Category:Poetry by Charles Baudelaire]] | [[Category:Poetry by Charles Baudelaire]] | ||
{{CC- | {{CC-pma|1957}} | ||
Revision as of 21:43, 20 May 2012
| The Flowers of Evil ~ Semper Eadem written by Charles Baudelaire translated by Roy Campbell |
| Semper eadem. From Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952), as presented at http://fleursdumal.org | Link to further information |
"Whence," ask you, "does this strange new sadness flow
Like rising tides on rocks, black, bare, and vast?"
For human hearts, when vintage-time is past,
To live is bad. That secret all men know —
An obvious sorrow, with no mystery, shown,
Clear as your joy, to everyone around.
O curious one, seek nothing more profound,
And speak not, though your voice be sweet in tone.
Hush, ignorant! Hush, soul that's still enraptured,
And mouth of childish laughter! Neatly captured,
Death pulls us, more than life, with subtle wile.
Oh let my thought get drunk upon a lie,
And plunge, as in a dream, in either eye,
And in their lashes' shadow sleep awhile!