The Love of Lies

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

When I see you pass, O my dear indolent one,
To the song of instruments that breaks against the ceiling,
Suspending your harmonious and slow gait,
And casting the boredom of your deep gaze;

When I contemplate, in the gaslight that colors it,
Your pale brow, embellished by a morbid charm,
Where the torches of evening light a dawn,
And your eyes as attractive as those of a portrait,

I say to myself: How beautiful she is! and strangely fresh!
The massive memory, a royal and heavy tower,
The crown, and her heart, bruised like a peach,
Is ripe, like her body, for the knowing love.
Are you the autumn fruit with sovereign flavors?
Are you a funeral vase awaiting some tears,
A perfume that makes one dream of distant oases,
A caressing pillow, or a basket of flowers?

I know there are eyes, of the most melancholic,
That conceal no precious secrets;
Beautiful caskets without jewels, medallions without relics,
Emptier, deeper than yourselves, O Heavens!

But is it not enough that you are appearance,
To delight a heart that flees the truth?
What does your stupidity or your indifference matter?
Mask or décor, hail! I adore your beauty.

Charles Baudelaire

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