La Béatrice

Poem by Charles Baudelaire Collection The Flowers of EvilThemes SadnessPeriod 19th century

On ashen, charred, verdureless terrain,
As I was one day complaining to nature,
And, wandering at random, slowly sharpened
The dagger of my thought against my heart,
I saw at broad noon descend upon my head
A funereal cloud, heavy with a tempest,
Which bore a herd of vicious demons,
Like cruel and curious dwarves.
They began to consider me coldly,
And, like passersby admiring a madman,
I heard them laugh and whisper among themselves,
Exchanging many a sign and many a wink:

– “” Let us contemplate at leisure this caricature
And this shade of Hamlet imitating his posture,
His gaze uncertain and his hair in the wind.
Is it not a great pity to see this bon vivant,
This beggar, this strolling player on holiday, this buffoon,
Because he knows how to act his part artfully,
Wish to interest in the song of his sorrows
The eagles, the crickets, the streams and the flowers,
And even us, authors of these old rubrics,
To recite while howling his public tirades? “”

I could have (my pride as high as the mountains
Towers over the cloud and the cry of the demons)
Simply turned away my sovereign head,
Had I not seen among their obscene troop,
A crime that has not made the sun falter!
The queen of my heart with the matchless gaze,
Who was laughing with them at my dark distress
And sometimes lavishing on them some foul caress.

Charles Baudelaire

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