Confession, Poem by Charles Baudelaire

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

Once, only once, amiable and gentle woman,
Upon my arm your polished arm
Rested (on the dark background of my soul
This memory has not faded) ;

It was late ; like a new medal
The full moon spread itself,
And the solemnity of the night, like a river,
Streamed over sleeping Paris.

And along the houses, under the carriage doors,
Cats passed furtively,
Ears alert, or else, like dear shadows,
Accompanied us slowly.

Suddenly, in the midst of the free intimacy
Blossoming in the pale light,
From you, rich and sonorous instrument where vibrates
Only radiant cheerfulness,

From you, clear and joyful like a fanfare
In the sparkling morning,
A plaintive note, a bizarre note
Escaped, while staggering

Like a sickly child, horrible, dark, filthy,
Whom its family would blush for,
And whom they would long, to hide from the world,
Have locked in a vault.

Poor angel, it sang, your shrill note :
“” That nothing here below is certain,
And that always, with whatever care it masks itself,
Human egoism betrays itself ;

That it is a hard trade to be a beautiful woman,
And that it is the banal work
Of the mad and cold dancer who swoons
In a mechanical smile ;

That to build on hearts is a foolish thing ;
That everything cracks, love and beauty,
Until Oblivion throws them into its basket
To return them to Eternity ! “”

I have often evoked that enchanted moon,
That silence and that languor,
And that horrible confidence whispered
In the confessional of the heart.

Charles Baudelaire

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