Poems
11.03.2010 / 15.46 pm
 
Charles Baudelaire Was an influential nineteenth century French poet, critic and acclaimed translator.
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Ill-starred

To bear a weight that cannot be borne,
Sisyphus, even you aren't that strong,
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The Blessing

When, by a decree of the sovereign power,
The poet makes his appearance in a bored world,
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Composure

(The speaker addresses himself)

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L'invitation Au Voyage

Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur,
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The Sick Muse

My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
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At One O'clock In The Morning

Alone, at last! Not a sound to be heard but the rumbling of some belated and decrepit cabs. For a few hours
we shall have silence, if not repose. At last the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I myself shall be the
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The Vampire

You that, like a dagger's thrust,
Have entered my complaining heart,
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Beacons

Reubens, river of forgetfulness, garden of sloth,
Pillow of wet flesh that one cannot love,
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The End Of The Day

In all its raucous impudence
Life writhes, cavorts in pallid light,
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Windows

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

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Elevation

Above the ponds, beyond the valleys,
The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas,
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The Venal Muse

O muse of my heart, lover of palaces,
Will you bring, when January lets loose its sleet
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My Earlier Life

I've been home a long time among the vast porticos,
Which the mariner sun has tinged with a million fires,
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