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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354464" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Le Flacon (The Perfume Flask)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">II est de forts parfums pour qui toute matière<br>Est poreuse. On dirait qu'ils pénètrent le verre.<br>En ouvrant un coffret venu de l'Orient<br>Dont la serrure grince et rechigne en criant,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ou dans une maison déserte quelque armoire<br>Pleine de l'âcre odeur des temps, poudreuse et noire,<br>Parfois on trouve un vieux flacon qui se souvient,<br>D'où jaillit toute vive une âme qui revient.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mille pensers dormaient, chrysalides funèbres,<br>Frémissant doucement dans les lourdes ténèbres,<br>Qui dégagent leur aile et prennent leur essor,<br>Teintés d'azur, glacés de rose, lamés d'or.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Voilà le souvenir enivrant qui voltige<br>Dans l'air troublé; les yeux se ferment; le Vertige<br>Saisit l'âme vaincue et la pousse à deux mains<br>Vers un gouffre obscurci de miasmes humains;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II la terrasse au bord d'un gouffre séculaire,<br>Où, Lazare odorant déchirant son suaire,<br>Se meut dans son réveil le cadavre spectral<br>D'un vieil amour ranci, charmant et sépulcral.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ainsi, quand je serai perdu dans la mémoire<br>Des hommes, dans le coin d'une sinistre armoire<br>Quand on m'aura jeté, vieux flacon désolé,<br>Décrépit, poudreux, sale, abject, visqueux, fêlé,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Je serai ton cercueil, aimable pestilence!<br>Le témoin de ta force et de ta virulence,<br>Cher poison préparé par les anges! liqueur<br>Qui me ronge, ô la vie et la mort de mon coeur!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Perfume Flask</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are strong perfumes for which all matter<br>Is porous. One would say they go through glass.<br>On opening a coffer that has come from the East,<br>Whose creaking lock resists and grates,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or in a deserted house, some cabinet <br>Full of the Past's acrid odor, dusty and black, <br>Sometimes one finds an antique phial which remembers, <br>Whence gushes forth a living soul returned to life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Many thoughts were sleeping, death-like chrysalides, <br>Quivering softly in the heavy shadows, <br>That free their wings and rise in flight, <br>Tinged with azure, glazed with rose, spangled with gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That is the bewitching souvenir which flutters <br>In the troubled air; the eyes close; Dizziness <br>Seizes the vanquished soul, pushes it with both hands <br>Toward a darkened abyss of human pollution:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He throws it down at the edge of an ancient abyss, <br>Where, like stinking Lazarus tearing wide his shroud, <br>There moves as it wakes up, the ghostly cadaver <br>Of a rancid old love, charming and sepulchral.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus, when I'll be lost to the memory<br>Of men, when I shall be tossed into the corner<br>Of a dismal wardrobe, a desolate old phial,<br>Decrepit, cracked, slimy, dirty, dusty, abject,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Delightful pestilence! I shall be your coffin,<br>The witness of your strength and of your virulence,<br>Beloved poison prepared by the angels! Liqueur<br>That consumes me, O the life and death of my heart!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Flask </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perfumes there are which through all things can pass<br>And make all matter porous, even glass;<br>Old coffers from the Orient brought, whose locks<br>Grind sullenly when opening the box,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or, in an empty house, some ancient chest, <br>Where time and dust and gloom were long compressed, <br>May yield a flask where memory survives, <br>And a soul flashes into future lives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thousand thoughts, funereal larvae, laid <br>Shuddering softly under palls of shade, <br>May suddenly their soaring wings unfold, <br>Stained azure, glazed with rose, or filmed with gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Intoxicating memory now flies <br>Into the dusk, and makes us close our eyes: <br>Vertigo draws the spirit which it grips <br>Towards some dark miasma of eclipse:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beside an ancient pit he makes her fall, <br>Where Lazarus, sweet-scented, tears his pall <br>And wakes the spectral corpse of some now-cold, <br>Rancid, sepulchral love he knew of old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So when I'm lost to human memory, thrown<br>In some old gloomy chest to fie alone,<br>A poor decrepit flask, cracked, abject, crusty<br>With dirt, opaque and sticky, damp and dusty,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll be your pall and shroud, beloved pest! <br>The witness of your venom, and its test, <br>Dear poison, angel-brewed with deadly art — <br>Life, death, and dear corrosion of my heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Perfume Flask</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All matter becomes porous to certain scents; they pass<br>Through everything; it seems they even go through glass.<br>When opening some old trunk brought home from the far east,<br>That scolds, feeling the key turned and the lid released — </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some wardrobe, in a house long uninhabited, <br>Full of the powdery odors of moments that are dead — <br>At times, distinct as ever, an old flask will emit <br>Its perfume; and a soul comes back to live in it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dormant as chrysalides, a thousand thoughts that lie <br>In the thick shadows, pulsing imperceptibly, <br>Now stir, now struggle forth; now their cramped wings unfold, <br>Tinted with azure, lustred with rose, sheeted with gold!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, memories, how you rise and soar, and hover there!<br>The eyes close; dizziness, in the moth-darkened air,<br>Seizes the drunken soul, and thrusts it toward the verge — <br>Where mistily all human miasmas float and merge — </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of a primeval gulf; and drops it to the ground, <br>There, where, like Lazarus rising, his grave-clothes half unwound, <br>And odorous, a cadaver from its sleep has stirred: <br>An old and rancid love, charming and long-interred.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus, when I shall be lost from sight, thus when all men<br>Forget me, in the dark and dusty corner then<br>Of that most sinister cupboard where the living pile<br>The dead — when, an old flask, cracked, sticky, abject, vile,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I lie at length — still, still, sweet pestilence of my heart, <br>As to what power thou hast, how virulent thou art, <br>I shall bear witness; safe shall thy dear poison be! <br>Thou vitriol of the gods I thou death and life of me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Le Flacon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so keen some fragrances, they freely pass<br>all barriers. they would pierce a wall of glass.<br>unlatch a coffer from the Orient<br>whose creaking hinge will scarcely grant consent,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">or cupboard in an empty house, where murk,<br>sharp smells and cobwebs of a century lurk,<br>thou'lt find perhaps a flask that holds a host<br>of memories, free perchance a living ghost.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">crushed in the gloom a thousand keepsakes lay<br>like coffined larvae there, which, quivering, grey,<br>released at last arise on soaring wing,<br>rose-flushed or azure, golden, glittering,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and swirling memories mount, to thrill and tease<br>our closing eyes; we reel in murk, as these<br>grapple amain and hurl the quailing soul<br>down to a Pit where human odours roll</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and fell it on the brink that waits for all,<br>where, bursting, Lazarus-like, its rotted pall,<br>stirs and awakes the spectral visage of<br>a charming, fusty, weird, forgotten love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so when Oblivion blots my memory dim,<br>and in a corner of a cupboard grim<br>I like cast off, a sorry flask and old,<br>crackled and dusty, viscous, green with mould,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'll be thy coffin, lovely pestilence!<br>I'll prove thy power and thy virulence,<br>dear poison brewed by angels! dulcet fire<br>I've drunk, my life, my death, my heart's desire!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks</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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Est poreuse. On dirait qu'ils pénètrent le verre.
En ouvrant un coffret venu de l'Orient
Dont la serrure grince et rechigne en criant,

Ou dans une maison déserte quelque armoire
Pleine de l'âcre..."></div>
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