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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354511" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spleen (II)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,<br>De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,<br>Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,<br>Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.<br>C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau,<br>Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.<br>— Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,<br>Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers<br>Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.<br>Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,<br>Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,<br>Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher<br>Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,<br>Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années<br>L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité,<br>Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.<br>— Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante!<br>Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante,<br>Assoupi dans le fond d'un Sahara brumeux;<br>Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux,<br>Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche<br>Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">---------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spleen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have more memories than if I'd lived a thousand years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A heavy chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets, <br>Processes, love-letters, verses, ballads, <br>And heavy locks of hair enveloped in receipts, <br>Hides fewer secrets than my gloomy brain. <br>It is a pyramid, a vast burial vault <br>Which contains more corpses than potter's field.<br>— I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, <br>In which long worms crawl like remorse <br>And constantly harass my dearest dead. <br>I am an old boudoir full of withered roses, <br>Where lies a whole litter of old-fashioned dresses, <br>Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Bouchers, <br>Alone, breathe in the fragrance from an opened phial.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing is so long as those limping days, <br>When under the heavy flakes of snowy years <br>Ennui, the fruit of dismal apathy, <br>Becomes as large as immortality. <br>— Henceforth you are no more, O living matter! <br>Than a block of granite surrounded by vague terrors, <br>Dozing in the depths of a hazy Sahara <br>An old sphinx ignored by a heedless world, <br>Omitted from the map, whose savage nature <br>Sings only in the rays of a setting sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">---------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spleen </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have more memories than had I seen <br>Ten centuries. A huge chest that has been <br>Stuffed full of writs, bills, verses, balance-sheets <br>With golden curls wrapt up in old receipts <br>And love-letters — hides less than my sad brain, <br>A pyramid, a vault that must contain <br>More corpses than the public charnel stores.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am a cemetery the moon abhors,<br>Where, like remorses, the long worms that trail<br>Always the dearest of my dead assail.<br>I am a boudoir full of faded roses<br>Where many an old outmoded dress reposes<br>And faded pastels and pale Bouchers only<br>Breathe a scent-flask, long-opened and left lonely...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing can match those limping days for length <br>Where under snows of years, grown vast in strength, <br>Boredom (of listlessness the pale abortion) <br>Of immortality takes the proportion!<br>— From henceforth, living matter, you are nought <br>But stone surrounded by a dreadful thought: <br>Lost in some dim Sahara, an old Sphinx, <br>Of whom the world we live in never thinks. <br>Lost on the map, it is its surly way <br>Only to sing in sunset's fading ray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spleen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Were I ten centuries old, could I remember more?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A weighty chest of drawers, crammed with a random store<br>Of poems, billets-doux, writs, songs, balance sheets,<br>And heavy skeins of hair rolled up in old receipts,<br>Hides fewer secrets, surely, than my sorry brain,<br>A pyramid and vault, whose corridors contain<br>More corpses than the potter's field, or late or soon.<br>A graveyard, I, abominated by the moon,<br>Where, like a viscous worm, remorse thrusts out his head<br>To strike forever at my most beloved dead.<br>I am an ancient boudoir filled with faded roses<br>In which a ruck of long-outmoded gowns reposes,<br>Where pastels all too sad and Bouchers all too pale<br>Alone breathe in the scents that uncorked flasks exhale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Nothing can be so long as days, limping and drear,<br>Under the heavy flakes of year on snowy year,<br>When ennui, fruit of dismal incuriosity,<br>Assumes the fearful scope of immortality.<br>— Henceforth you are no more, O mind, O living matter!<br>Than a cold granite block which unknown terrors spatter,<br>Dozing deep in the wastes of a Saharan daze,<br>An ancient Sphinx unknown of our indifferent days,<br>Omitted from all maps, a lonely savage one<br>Who can sing only at the setting of the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Jacques LeClercq</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Sphinx</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I swear to you that if I lived a thousand years <br>I could not be more crammed with dubious souvenirs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's no old chest of drawers bulging with deeds and bills, <br>Love-letters, locks of hair, novels, bad verses, wills, <br>That hides so many secrets as my wretched head; — <br>It's like a mausoleum, like a pyramid,<br>Holding more heaped unpleasant bones than Potter's Field; <br>I am a graveyard hated by the moon; revealed <br>Never by her blue light are those long worms that force <br>Into my dearest dead their blunt snouts of remorse.<br>— am an old boudoir, where roses dried and brown <br>Have given their dusty odor to the faded gown, <br>To the ridiculous hat, doubtless in other days <br>So fine, among the wan pastels and pale Bouchers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time has gone lame, and limps; and under a thick pall <br>Of snow the endless years efface and muffle all; <br>Till boredom, fruit of the mind's inert, incurious tree, <br>Assumes the shape and size of immortality.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Henceforth, O living matter, you are nothing more <br>Than the fixed heart of chaos, soft horror's granite core, <br>Than a forgotten Sphinx that in some desert stands, <br>Drowsing beneath the heat, half-hidden by the sands, <br>Unmarked on any map, — whose rude and sullen frown <br>Lights up a moment only when the sun goes down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay</div><div style="margin:10px 0">----------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spleen</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I hold more memories than a thousand years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a chest of drawers crammed full of souvenirs,<br>accounts and love-notes, warrants, verses — where<br>from bills of sale fall coiling locks of hair —<br>guards not more secrets than my heart of woe,<br>a burial-vault whose coffins lie arow,<br>a potters' field that death has filled too soon.<br>— I am a graveyard hated by the moon,<br>where creeping worms trail slowly as remorse,<br>fiercely destroyed each belovèd corpse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am a room where faded roses lie<br>and gowns of perished fashions multiply,<br>with none but ladies in pastel to share<br>the musk from some old jar forgotten there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">no days so lame as all the days I know<br>while, crushed by years of ever-falling snow,<br>boredom, dull fruitage of my apathy,<br>waxes as vast as immortality.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">henceforth, o living cells, ye sleep, a womb<br>faint shudders pierce, a cold grey cliff of doom<br>lost in a misty desert far away,<br>— a drowsy sphynx, forgot by all today,<br>uncharted avatar, whose tameless heart<br>sounds only when the day's last fires depart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">— 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=354511" data-title="Spleen (II) de Charles Baudelaire" data-description="J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.

Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
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