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Charles Baudelaire Poems - WothQuotes

on
11/28/2017
Charles Baudelaire, a France poet, is one of the major innovators in France literature who influenced a whole generation of poets with his highly original style of prose-poetry in the 19th century, among them were Arthur Rimbaud and Stéphane Mallarmé.

Born in Paris, France on April 9th, 1821, Baudelaire was educated in Lyon and later attended the Lycée Louis-le-Grand in Paris and gained his law degree in 1839. He died on August 31, 1867 at age 67.



Charles Baudelaire Poems



Even When She Walks
By Charles Baudelaire

Even when she walks she seems to dance!
Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes
obedient to the rhythm of the wands
by which a fakir wakens them to grace.

Like both the desert and the desert sky
insensible to human suffering,
and like the ocean's endless labyrinth
she shows her body with indifference.

Precious minerals are her polished eyes,
and in her strange symbolic nature
angel and sphinx unite,
where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light,
shining forever, useless as a star,
the sterile woman's icy majesty.




Get Drunk
By Charles Baudelaire

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace, 
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing, 
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird, 
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get Drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"



Hymn 
By Charles Baudelaire

To the too-dear, to the too-beautiful,
who fills my heart with clarity,
to the angel, to the immortal idol,
All hail, in immorality!
She flows through my reality,
air, mixed with the salt sea-swell:
into my soul's ecstasy,
pours the essence of the eternal;
Ever-fresh sachet, that scents
the dear corner's atmospheric light,
hidden smoke, of the burning censer,
in the secret paths of night.
How, incorruptible love,
to express your endless verities?
Grain of musk, unseen, above,
in the depths of my infinities!
To the too-dear, to the too-beautiful,
who is my joy ans sanity,
to the angel, to the immortal idol,
All hail in immorality!



II Aimait À La Voir
By Charles Baudelaire 

It was in her white skirts that he loved to see
her run straight through the branches and leaves, gracefully, 
but still gauche, and hiding her leg from the light,
when she tore her dress, on the briars, in her flight.



Autumn 
By Charles Baudelaire

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thugs of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.

I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioner's drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.

It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone 
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere. 
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn. 
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.



The living flame
By Charles Baudelaire 

They pass before me, these Eyes full of light,
Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise;
The holy brothers pass before my sight,
And cast their diamond fire in my dim eyes.

They keep me from all sin and error grave,
They set me in the path whence Beauty came;
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
And all my soul obeys the living flame.

Beautiful Eyes that gleam with mystic light
As candles lighted at full noon; the sun
Dims not your flame phantastical and bright.

You sing the dawn: they celebrate life done;
Marching you haunt my soul's awakening hymn,
Stars that no sun has ever made grow dim!



Sorrows Of The Moon
By Charles Baudelaire

Tonight the moon dreams in a deeper languidness,
And, like a beauty on her cushions, lies at rest;
While drifting off to sleep, a tentative caress
Seeks, with a gentle hand, the contour of her breast;

As on a crest above her silken avalanche,
Dying, she yields herself to an unending swoon
And sees a pallid vision everywhere she'd glance,
In the azure sky where blossoms have been strewn.

When sometime, in her weariness, upon her sphere 
She might permit herself to sheda furtive tear,
A poet of great piety, a foe of sleep,

Catches in the hollow of his hand that tear,
An opal fragment, iridescent as a star;
Within his heart, far from the sun, it's buried deep.



Bertha's Eyes
By Charles Baudelaire

You can scorn more illustrious eyes,
sweet eyes of my child, through which there takes flight
something as good or as tender as night.
Turn to mine your charmed shadows, sweet eyes!
Great eyes of a child, adorable secrets,
you resemble those grottoes of magic
where, behind the dark and lethargic,
shine vague treasures the world forgets.
My child has veiled eyes, profound and vast,
And shining like you, Night, immense, above!
Their fires are of Trust, mixed with thoughts of Love,
that glitter in depths, voluptuous or chaste.



The Owls
By Charles Baudelaire 

Among the black yews, their shelter,
the owls are ranged in a row,
like alien deities, the glow,
of their red eyes pierces. They ponder.
They perch there without moving,
till that melancholy moment 
when quenching the falling sun, 
the shadows are growing.
Their stance teaches the wise
to fear, in this world of ours,
all tumult, and all movement:
Mankind drunk on brief shadows
always incurs a punishment 
for his longing to stir, and go.



The Possessed 
By Charles Baudelaire

The sun in crepe has muffled up his fire.
Moon of my life! Half shade yourself like him
Slumber or smoke. Be silent and be dim,
And in the gulf of ennui plunge entire;

I love you thus! However, if you like,
Like some bright star from its eclipse emerging,
To flaunt with Folly where the crowds are surging --
Flash, lovely dagger, from your sheath and strike!

Light up your eyes from chandeliers of glass!
Light up the lustful looks of louts that pass!
Morbid or petulant, I trill before you.

Be what you will, black night or crimson dawn;
No fibre of my body tautly drawn,
But cries: "Beloved demon, I adore you!"


You may visit poemhunter.com for more Charles Baudelaire poems 


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