The Portrait

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

Disease and Death make ashes
Of all the fire that blazed for us.
Of those great eyes so fervent and so tender,
Of that mouth where my heart was drowned,

Of those kisses powerful as dittany,
Of those transports more vivid than rays,
What remains? It is dreadful, O my soul!
Nothing but a very pale drawing, in three crayons,

Which, like me, dies in solitude,
And which Time, insulting old man,
Each day rubs with his rough wing…

Black assassin of Life and of Art,
You will never kill in my memory
She who was my pleasure and my glory!

Charles Baudelaire

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