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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354503" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Remords Posthume (Posthumous Remorse)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lorsque tu dormiras, ma belle ténébreuse,<br>Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir,<br>Et lorsque tu n'auras pour alcôve et manoir<br>Qu'un caveau pluvieux et qu'une fosse creuse;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quand la pierre, opprimant ta poitrine peureuse<br>Et tes flancs qu'assouplit un charmant nonchaloir,<br>Empêchera ton coeur de battre et de vouloir,<br>Et tes pieds de courir leur course aventureuse,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Le tombeau, confident de mon rêve infini<br>(Car le tombeau toujours comprendra le poète),<br>Durant ces grandes nuits d'où le somme est banni,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Te dira: «Que vous sert, courtisane imparfaite,<br>De n'avoir pas connu ce que pleurent les morts?»<br>— Et le vers rongera ta peau comme un remords.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Posthumous Remorse</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you will sleep, O dusky beauty mine,<br>Beneath a monument fashioned of black marble,<br>When you will have for bedroom and mansion<br>Only a rain-swept vault and a hollow grave,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the slab of stone, oppressing your frightened breast<br>And your flanks now supple with charming nonchalance,<br>Will keep your heart from beating, from wishing,<br>And your feet from running their adventurous course,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tomb, confidant of my infinite dreams <br>(For the tomb will always understand the poet) <br>Through those long nights from which all sleep is banned, will say:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'What does it profit you, imperfect courtesan, <br>Not to have known why the dead weep?'<br>— And like remorse the worm will gnaw your skin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Posthumous Remorse </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you're asleep, dear shadow-coloured wench, <br>Within a coal-black, marble monument: <br>When, for your room and mansion, you are pent <br>In a wet cellar and a hollow trench:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the stone, pressing on your startled breast <br>And flanks in fluent suppleness competing, <br>Prevents your heart from wishing or from beating, <br>Your feet from racing on their reckless quest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tomb that shares my deathless recollection<br>(For poets best are understood by tombs)<br>On those long nights, when never sleep presumes,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Will say, 'What boots, frail vase of imperfection,<br>Not to have known what pains with death begin?' — <br>And, like remorse, the worm will gnaw your skin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Posthumous Remorse</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When, O sweet dusky beauty, you shall rest<br>Deep under a bleak marble monument,<br>When for last manor yours the tenement<br>Of rainswept vault or hollow ditch at best,<br>When the long stone weighs down your frightened breast<br>And flanks — so supple now and indolent — <br>Choking your heart's beat and your feet's intent<br>To race again on their adventurous quest,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tomb, confidant of my endless dreams, shall keep<br>Vigil through those long nights that know not sleep,<br>(Poet and tomb were friends since Time began)<br>Saying: 'What use, imperfect courtesan,<br>Not to make known what dead men mourn perforce?'<br>While the worm gnaws you sharply as remorse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Jacques LeClercq</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remorse Too Late</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My dark and lovely thing, when you at length lie dead, <br>And sleep beneath a slab of marble black as pitch; <br>And have, for perfumed alcove and seductive bed, <br>Only a rainy cavern and a hollow ditch;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the oppressive stone upon your frightened breast <br>Lets settle all its weight, and on your supple thighs; <br>Restrains your heart from beating, flattens it to rest; <br>Bends down and binds your feet, so roving, so unwise;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The tomb, that knows me well and reads my dream aright,<br>(What poet but confides his secret to the tomb?)<br>Will say to you some day during that endless night,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'They fare but ill, vain courtesan, in this cold room, <br>Who bring here no warm memories of true love to keep!'<br>— And like remorse the worm will gnaw you in your sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remords posthume</div><div style="margin:10px 0">when thou wilt sleep, dark girl of shadowy gaze,<br>down in the cold black marble of a tomb,<br>a dripping vault thine only tiring-room,<br>thine only bed a grave where all decays,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">when rock shall press thy paling breast and graze<br>thy limbs now languorous-lovely in the gloom<br>— shall crush thy faltering heart, thy will consume<br>and halt thy feet in their adventurous ways,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the Grave, that knows what infinite dreams I keep,<br>(o Grave, the poet's friend forever, thou!)<br>all through the night bereft of exiled sleep,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">shall ask: 'art sorry, wretched wanton, now,<br>not to have learned why dead men weep, perforce?'<br>— and worms shall gnaw thy breast like sharp remorse.</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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<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=354503" data-title="Remords Posthume (Posthumous Remorse) de Charles Baudelaire" data-description="Lorsque tu dormiras, ma belle ténébreuse,
Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir,
Et lorsque tu n'auras pour alcôve et manoir
Qu'un caveau pluvieux et qu'une fosse creuse;

Quand la pierre, opprimant ta poitrine peureuse
Et tes flancs q..."></div>
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