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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354552" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tristesses de la lune (Sorrows Of The Moon)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;<br>Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,<br>Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse<br>Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,<br>Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,<br>Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches<br>Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,<br>Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,<br>Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,<br>Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,<br>Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sadness of the Moon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tonight the moon dreams with more indolence, <br>Like a lovely woman on a bed of cushions <br>Who fondles with a light and listless hand <br>The contour of her breasts before falling asleep;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the satiny back of the billowing clouds,<br>Languishing, she lets herself fall into long swoons <br>And casts her eyes over the white phantoms <br>That rise in the azure like blossoming flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When, in her lazy listlessness,<br>She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,<br>A pious poet, enemy of sleep,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the hollow of his hand catches this pale tear, <br>With the iridescent reflections of opal, <br>And hides it in his heart afar from the sun's eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sorrow of the Moon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">More drowsy dreams the moon tonight. She rests <br>Like a proud beauty on heaped cushions pressing, <br>With light and absent-minded touch caressing, <br>Before she sleeps, the contour of her breasts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches <br>She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change, <br>And lets her eyes on snowy visions range <br>That in the azure rise like flowering branches.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When sometimes to this earth her languor calm<br>Lets streak a stealthy tear, a pious poet,<br>The enemy of sleep, in his cupped palm,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Takes this pale tear, of liquid opal spun <br>With rainbow lights, deep in his heart to stow it <br>Far from the staring eyeballs of the Sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Sadness of the Moon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed, <br>Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty amid <br>The tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed, <br>Caressing with an abstracted hand the curve of her breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover, for hours <br>She lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky — <br>Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by <br>Uncurling indolently in the blue air like flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,<br>Out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,<br>Some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart — </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all <br>Fiery and iridescent like an opal's sphere, <br>And hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by George Dillon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tristesses de la lune</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the moon tonight, more indolently dreaming,<br>as on a pillowed bed, a woman seems,<br>caressing with a hand distraught and gleaming,<br>her soft curved bosom, ere she sinks in dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">against a snowy satin avalanche<br>she lies entranced and drowned in swooning hours,<br>her gaze upon the visions born to blanch<br>those far blue depths with ever-blossoming flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and when in some soft languorous interval,<br>earthward, she lets a stealthy tear-drop fall,<br>a poet, foe to slumber, toiling on,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">with reverent hollow hand receives the pearl,<br>where shimmering opalescences unfurl,<br>and shields it in his heart, far from the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sorrows of the Moon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tonight the moon dreams in a deeper languidness,<br>And, like a beauty on her cushions, lies at rest;<br>While drifting off to sleep, a tentative caress<br>Seeks, with a gentle hand, the contour of her breast;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As on a crest above her silken avalanche,<br>Dying, she yields herself to an unending swoon,<br>And sees a pallid vision everywhere she’d glance,<br>In the azure sky where blossoms have been strewn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When sometime, in her weariness, upon her sphere<br>She might permit herself to sheda furtive tear,<br>A poet of great piety, a foe of sleep,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Catches in the hollow of his hand that tear,<br>An opal fragment, iridescent as a star;<br>Within his heart, far from the sun, it’s buried deep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Translated by Anonymous</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=354552" data-title="Tristesses de la lune (Sorrows Of The Moon) de Charles Baudelaire" data-description="Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se liv..."></div>
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