Ode to beauty – Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire

VIa: libriantichionline.com CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Charles Baudelaire - Ode to beauty

Selected poems : CHARLES BAUDELAIRE,
  Les fleurs du mal (Paris, Levy 857).

Do you come from the deep sky or do you come out of the abyss,
Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal,
dispenses relief and crime in bulk,
and in this you can be compared to wine.

Enclose in your eye the sunset and the dawn;
you smell the air like a stormy evening;
your kisses are a filter and your mouth an amphora
that cowardly the hero and the brave boy.

Do you come out of the black abyss or do you come down from the stars?
Destiny ensnared follows your skirt
like a dog; randomly sow joy and disaster,
and govern everything and answer nothing.

Walk on the corpses, o Beauty, taunting them,
of your jewels, the Horror is not the least attractive,
the Assassination, in the midst of your dearest pendants
on your belly, proudly dance lovingly.

Towards you, candle, the dazzled moth
crackles and burns saying: Blessed be the flame!
The panting lover bent over his beloved
looks like a dying man who caresses the grave.

Whether you come from heaven or from hell, what does it matter,
Beauty! Huge, scary, naive monster!
If your eyes, your smile, your foot open the door
of an Infinity that I love and have never known?

From Satan or from God, what does it matter? Angel or Mermaid,
you make us – made of velvet eyes,
rhythm, perfume, light, my only queen!
The less hateful universe, less heavy the minute?

Hymne à la beauté

Viens-tu du ciel deeply ou sors-tu de abîme,
O Beauté? ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

You keep in the tone and the couchant and the auror;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Here font le héros lâche et l’enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
The Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques;
De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

L’éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit: Bénissons ce flambeau!
The amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l’air d’un moribond caressant son tombeau.

That you come from the sky, that is something,
Ô Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton oeil, ton souris, ton pied, m’ouvrent la porte
D’un Infini que j’aime et n’ai jamais connu?

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu’importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu’importe, si tu rends, – fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine!
The univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Eugene Field – 1850-1895

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
   Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—
Sailed on a river of crystal light
   Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
   The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring-fish
   That live in this beautiful sea;
   Nets of silver and gold have we,”
            Said Wynken,
            And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
   As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
   Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
   That lived in the beautiful sea.
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—
   Never afraid are we!”
   So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
            And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
   To the stars in the twinkling foam,—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
   Bringing the fishermen home:
‘Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
   As if it could not be;
And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
   Of sailing that beautiful sea;
   But I shall name you the fishermen three:
            And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
   And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
   Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
   Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
   As you rock in the misty sea
   Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:—
            And Nod.

This poem is in the public domain.
Now to sleep and perchance to dream…