Eros and the Skull

Insolent Eros,

      seated on the skull

     of Humanity

     as if on a throne,

gaily blows bubbles

     they rise, one after

     another, as if

     to rejoin the worlds

in the stratosphere.

     Frail and luminous

     each globe as it mounts

     explodes, spattering

its tenuous soul

     like a golden dream

     I hear the skull moan

     as each one shatters:

'When will this callous,

     ridiculous game

     of yours be over?

     What your cruel breath

scatters into air,

     Monster Murderer,

     is my very flesh

     and blood - gray matters!'

Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

Mists and Rains

Waning autumn, winter, mudbound spring - 

I thank these somnolent seasons which I love

for offering to both my heart and mind

so vaporous a shroud, so vague a tomb.

Here on this huge plain where the wind perfects

a will of its own and the weathervane cries all night,

now and not in the tepid days to come

my soul prefers to spread her raven wings.

Filled with dead and dying things, the heart

itself is frozen fast, and best of all

- O queen of our climate, ashen time of year! -

your livid shadows never seem to change

except on moonless nights when two by two

we rock our pain to sleep on a reckless bed.

Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal