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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354451" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>La Muse Malade (The Sick Muse)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?<br>Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,<br>Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint<br>La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin <br>T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?<br>Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin<br>T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé<br>Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,<br>Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,<br>Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,<br>Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Sick Muse</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My poor Muse, alas! what ails you today? <br>Your hollow eyes are full of nocturnal visions; <br>I see in turn reflected on your face <br>Horror and madness, cold and taciturn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Have the green succubus, the rosy elf,<br>Poured out for you love and fear from their urns?<br>Has the hand of Nightmare, cruel and despotic,<br>Plunged you to the bottom of some weird Minturnae?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would that your bosom, fragrant with health,<br>Were constantly the dwelling place of noble thoughts,<br>And that your Christian blood would flow in rhythmic waves</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like the measured sounds of ancient verse, <br>Over which reign in turn the father of all songs, <br>Phoebus, and the great Pan, lord of harvest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Sick Muse </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today? <br>Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, <br>And turn about, in your complexion play <br>Madness and horror, cold and taciturn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Green succubus and rosy imp — have they <br>Poured you both fear and love into one glass? <br>Or with his tyrant fist the nightmare, say, <br>Submerged you in some fabulous morass?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wish that, breathing health, your breast might nourish<br>Ever robuster thoughts therein to flourish:<br>And that your Christian blood, in rhythmic flow,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With those old polysyllables would chime, <br>Where, turn about, reigned Phoebus, sire of rhyme, <br>And Pan, the lord of harvests long ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">La Muse malade</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>poor Muse, alas! what ails thee now? for thy<br>great hollow eyes with sights nocturnal burn, <br>and in they changing pallor I descry<br>madness and frozen horror, turn by turn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">did rosy sprites or pale green succubi<br>pour love or panic from their dream-filled urn?<br>did the mad fist of despot nightmare try<br>to drown thee where the fiends of hell sojourn?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would that thou wert always filled with health<br>and manly thoughts undaunted; that a wealth<br>of Christian blood were thine, which always flowed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in calm broad rhythms like a Grecian ode,<br>now echoing forth Apollo's golden strain,<br>and now great Pan, the lord of ripening grain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Sick Mused</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning? <br>Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions, <br>In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection, <br>I see insanity and horror forming. <br>The green succubus and the red urchin, <br>Have they poured you fear and love from their urns? <br>The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns, <br>Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity, <br>That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently <br>And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables, <br>Where reigns in turn the father of songs, <br>Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Translated by William A. Sigler</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Baudelaire">Charles Baudelaire</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354451" data-title="La Muse Malade (The Sick Muse) de Charles Baudelaire" data-description="Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.


Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin 
T'ont-ils v..."></div>
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