Archive

The Spell

“Son joyeux, importun, d’un clavecin sonore.” —PÉTRUS BOREL The keyboard, over which two slim hands float, Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray, Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note Takes flight to form a pensive little lay That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote, About the room...

By Paul Verlaine
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01 September

Muted Tones

Calm in the half-light Cast by the high branches Let the deep quiet Reach into our love. Melt as one soul One heart one charm Of senses under soft swaying Pines and arbuti. Half-close your eyes Fold your arms Empty for good your sleeping heart Of all its concerns. Be captivated by Air's lullaby Whispering over The russet lawn...

By Paul Verlaine
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24 September

The Death of Lovers

We shall have beds filled with light odours, couches deep as tombs, and, set out on shelves, rare flowers which bloomed for us under more beautiful skies. Vying to use up their last heats, our hearts will be two great torches, which will reflect their double...

By Charles Baudelaire
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23 August

The Dancing Serpent

How I love to look, dear indolent one, at your beautiful body and see, like a shot silk, the changing gleam of your skin! On your deep hair, with its bitter perfumes, a scented and wandering sea of blue and brown waves, Like a ship stirring with...

By Charles Baudelaire
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20 July

Invocation

Oh you who appeared to me in this desert of a world, Inhabitant of the sky, passenger in these parts! O you who made this dark night shine A ray of love in my eyes. To my astonished eyes, show yourself all whole, Tell me your name, your country, your...

By Alphonse de Lamartine
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16 July

The Voyage

But the real travelers are those who leave for leaving’s sake; their hearts are light as balloons, they never diverge from the path of their fate and, without knowing why, always say, ‘Let’s go.’ They are the ones whose desires have the shape of clouds, and...

By Charles Baudelaire
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10 July

The Death of the Poor

It is Death which consoles men, alas, and keeps them alive. Death is the aim of life; it is the only hope which, like an elixir, raises our spirits and intoxicates us, and gives us the heart to march until evening; Through the storm, and the...

By Charles Baudelaire
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07 July

The End of the Day

Under a bleak white light she runs, dances and writhes without reason – Life, shameless and shrill. And so, as soon as on the horizon Voluptuous night rises, calming everything, even hunger, blotting out everything, even shame, the Poet says to himself, ‘At last! ‘My spirit, like...

By Charles Baudelaire
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03 July