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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354554" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Un Fantôme (A Phantom)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I Les Ténèbres</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dans les caveaux d'insondable tristesse<br>Où le Destin m'a déjà relégué;<br>Où jamais n'entre un rayon rose et gai;<br>Où, seul avec la Nuit, maussade hôtesse,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Je suis comme un peintre qu'un Dieu moqueur<br>Condamne à peindre, hélas! sur les ténèbres;<br>Où, cuisinier aux appétits funèbres,<br>Je fais bouillir et je mange mon coeur,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Par instants brille, et s'allonge, et s'étale<br>Un spectre fait de grâce et de splendeur.<br>À sa rêveuse allure orientale,<br>Quand il atteint sa totale grandeur,<br>Je reconnais ma belle visiteuse:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">C'est Elle! noire et pourtant lumineuse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II Le Parfum</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré<br>Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise<br>Ce grain d'encens qui remplit une église,<br>Ou d'un sachet le musc invétéré?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise<br>Dans le présent le passé restauré!<br>Ainsi l'amant sur un corps adoré<br>Du souvenir cueille la fleur exquise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">De ses cheveux élastiques et lourds,<br>Vivant sachet, encensoir de l'alcôve,<br>Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Et des habits, mousseline ou velours,<br>Tout imprégnés de sa jeunesse pure,<br>Se dégageait un parfum de fourrure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III Le Cadre</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Comme un beau cadre ajoute à la peinture,<br>Bien qu'elle soit d'un pinceau très-vanté,<br>Je ne sais quoi d'étrange et d'enchanté<br>En l'isolant de l'immense nature,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ainsi bijoux, meubles, métaux, dorure,<br>S'adaptaient juste à sa rare beauté;<br>Rien n'offusquait sa parfaite clarté,<br>Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Même on eût dit parfois qu'elle croyait<br>Que tout voulait l'aimer; elle noyait<br>Sa nudité voluptueusement</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dans les baisers du satin et du linge,<br>Et, lente ou brusque, à chaque mouvement<br>Montrait la grâce enfantine du singe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV Le Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">La Maladie et la Mort font des cendres<br>De tout le feu qui pour nous flamboya.<br>De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres,<br>De cette bouche où mon coeur se noya,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame,<br>De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons,<br>Que reste-t-il? C'est affreux, ô mon âme!<br>Rien qu'un dessin fort pâle, aux trois crayons,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude,<br>Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard,<br>Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Noir assassin de la Vie et de l'Art,<br>Tu ne tueras jamais dans ma mémoire<br>Celle qui fut mon plaisir et ma gloire!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Phantom</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I The Darkness</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the mournful vaults of fathomless gloom<br>To which Fate has already banished me,<br>Where a bright, rosy beam never enters;<br>Where, alone with Night, that sullen hostess,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm like a painter whom a mocking God <br>Condemns to paint, alas! upon darkness; <br>Where, a cook with a woeful appetite, <br>I boil and I eat my own heart;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At times there shines, and lengthens, and broadens<br>A specter made of grace and of splendor;<br>By its dreamy, oriental manner,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When it attains its full stature, <br>I recognize my lovely visitor; <br>It's She! dark and yet luminous.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II The Perfume</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reader, have you at times inhaled <br>With rapture and slow greediness <br>That grain of incense which pervades a church, <br>Or the inveterate musk of a sachet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Profound, magical charm, with which the past, <br>Restored to life, makes us inebriate! <br>Thus the lover from an adored body <br>Plucks memory's exquisite flower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From her tresses, heavy and elastic,<br>Living sachet, censer for the bedroom,<br>A wild and savage odor rose,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And from her clothes, of muslin or velvet, <br>All redolent of her youth's purity, <br>There emanated the odor of furs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III The Frame</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As a lovely frame adds to a painting,<br>Even though it's from a master's brush,<br>An indefinable strangeness and charm<br>By isolating it from vast nature,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus jewels, metals, gilding, furniture, <br>Suited her rare beauty to perfection; <br>Nothing dimmed its flawless splendor; <br>All seemed to form for her a frame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One would even have said that she believed<br>That everything wished to love her; she drowned<br>Her nudity voluptuously</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the kisses of the satin and linen, <br>And, with each movement, slow or brusque, <br>She showed the child-like grace of a monkey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV The Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Disease and Death make ashes<br>Of all the fire that flamed for us.<br>Of those wide eyes, so fervent and tender,<br>Of that mouth in which my heart was drowned,<br>Of those kisses potent as dittany,<br>Of those transports more vivid than sunbeams,<br>What remains? It is frightful, O my soul!<br>Nothing but a faint sketch, in three colors,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Which, like me, is dying in solitude,<br>And which Time, that contemptuous old man,<br>Grazes each day with his rough wing...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Black murderer of Life and Art,<br>You will never kill in my memory<br>The one who was my glory and my joy!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by William Aggeler</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Phantom </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I The Shades</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My fate confines me, dark and shady, <br>In vaults of lone unfathomed grief. <br>No rosy sunbeams bring relief. <br>Alone with Night, my grim landlady,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm like a painter whom God spites <br>To paint on shades, and cook and eat <br>My own poor heart, the only meat <br>Of my funereal appetites.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes a spectre dim, reclining <br>In grace and glory, can be seen. <br>With dreamy oriental mien.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When fully its own form defining, <br>I recognise who it must be, <br>Sombre yet luminous, it's She!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II The Perfume</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reader, say, have you ever breathed, <br>With lazy greed and joy, the dusk <br>Of an old church with incense wreathed, <br>Or smelt an ancient bag of musk?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's by such charms the Nevermore <br>Intoxicates us in the Now — <br>As lovers to Remembrance bow <br>Over the bodies they adore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From her thick tresses as they fume <br>(Scent-sack and censer of the room) <br>A feline, tawny perfume springs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her muslins and her velvets smooth <br>Give off, made pregnant with her youth, <br>Scents of the fur of prowling things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III The Frame</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As a fine frame improves a plate <br>Although the graver needs no vaunting — <br>I know not what of strange and haunting <br>(From nature vast to isolate</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her beauty) was conferred by gems, <br>Metals, and gear. She mingled with them, <br>And swirled them all into her rhythm <br>As in her skirts the flouncing herns.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They say she thought all things were stung <br>With love for her. Her naked flesh <br>She loved to drown in kisses fresh</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of flax or satin. To her clung, <br>In all the movements of her shape, <br>The childish graces of the ape.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV The Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sickness and death will form the ash and dust<br>Of all the fire we blazed with in such splendour,<br>Of those great eyes so fervent and so tender,<br>The mouth wherein my heart would drown its lust,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The kisses strong as marum, the delightful,<br>Fierce transports livelier than the solar rays.<br>What can remain? My soul, the truth is frightful!<br>A fading sketch, a faint three-coloured haze,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which (like myself unfriended) wanes away,<br>While Time, insulting dotard, every day,<br>Brushes it fainter with his heedless wing...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Killer of life and art! black, evil King!<br>You'll never kill, within my soul, the story <br>Of that which was my rapture and my glory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Roy Campbell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Disease and Death make ashes out of all <br>The fires that flamed for us, out of the round <br>Wide eyes, so fervent and so kind withal, <br>Out of the mouth wherein my heart was drowned, <br>Out of our kisses, strong as pepperwort, <br>Out of throes bright as patterns sunbeams etch.<br>What is left now? What dreadful last resort, <br>O Soul? Only a faint three-colored sketch </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which is, like me, a lonely dying thing, <br>And which that oldster Time with scornful heart <br>Bruises each day beneath his jagged wing.<br>Slayer of Life and murderer of Art, <br>Mine, still, one treasure you shall not destroy: <br>She who was all my glory and my joy!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">[The original publication only includes this last section of the poem]. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Jacques LeClercq</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Disease and Death, these are the ashes of<br>All that was fire, and warmed us heretofore.<br>Of those big eyes, so full of faith and love,<br>That mouth which stopped my heart, that endless store</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of kisses strong as dittany — that whole <br>Transport, that passion hotter than the sun, <br>What now remains? A sorry thing, my soul! <br>A faded sketch, in three pale crayons done;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which, like myself, in dusty solitude<br>Subsides, and which with his injurious wing<br>Time daily rubs against. O black and rude</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Assassin of proud Life and powerful Art: <br>You cannot rob my memory of one thing, — <br>Her, that was all my triumph, all my heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>[The original publication only includes this last section of the poem]. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Un Fantôme</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I Les Tenebres</div><div style="margin:10px 0">down in the unplumbed crypt of blight<br>where Fate abandoned me to die,<br>where falls no cheering ray; where I,<br>sole lodger of the sulky Night,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">like artists blind God sets apart<br>in mockery — I paint the murk;<br>where, like a ghoulish cook at work,<br>I boil and munch upon my heart,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">momently gleams, and grows apace,<br>a phantom languorously bright,<br>and by its dreamy Orient grace,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">when it attains its radiant height,<br>at last I know the lovely thing:<br>'tis She! girl black yet glimmering.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II Le Parfum</div><div style="margin:10px 0">how long, in silken favours, last<br>their prisoned scents! how greedily<br>we breathe the incense-grain, a sea<br>of fragrance, in cathedrals vast!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">o deep enchanting sorcery!<br>in present joys to find the past!<br>'tis thus on cherished flesh amassed<br>Love culls the flower of memory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">her thick curled hair, like bags of musk<br>or living censers, left the dusk<br>with strange wild odours all astir,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and, from her lace and velvet busk,<br>— candid and girlish, over her, <br>hovered a heavy scent of fur.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III Le Cadre</div><div style="margin:10px 0">as framing to a portrait gives<br>— though from a famous brush it be —<br>a magic full of mystery<br>secluding it from all that lives,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so gems, divans, gold, steel became<br>her beauty's border and attire;<br>no pomp obscured its perfect fire,<br>all seemed to serve her as a frame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">one even might have said she found<br>all sought to love her, for she drowned<br>in kisses of her silks and laces,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">her fair nude body, all a-quiver,<br>and swift or slow, each pose would give her<br>a host of girlish simian graces.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV Le Portrait</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death and Disease to ashes turn<br>all flames that wrapped our youth around.<br>of her soft eyes, so quick to burn, <br>her mouth, wherein my heart was drowned.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of her wild kisses' tyrannies,<br>her passion's blaze implacable —<br>drear heart! what now is left of these?<br>only a faded old pastel</div><div style="margin:10px 0">dying, like me, in loneliness,<br>duller each day in every part,<br>stripped by Time's pinion merciless...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">black murderer of life and art,<br>never shalt thou destroy in me<br>her, once my pride and ecstasy!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Ghost</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I Perfume</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reader, have you ever breathed in<br>With intoxication and slow gluttony, <br>That grain of incense which fills a church, <br>Or that embedded musk of a scent-bag?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Deep, magical charm, the past recalled <br>By you now makes us drunk. <br>Thus a lover plucks from an adored body <br>The exquisite flower of memory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From her buoyant, heavy hair,<br>A living sachet, censer of recesses,<br>There climbs a fragrance, savage, wild,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And from her muslin or velvet dresses, <br>Permeated with her pure youth, <br>Escapes a perfume of fur.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II The Frame</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As a fine frame adds to its picture, <br>Though it may come from a well-known brush, <br>Thus jewels, furniture, metals or gilding <br>Adapted themselves quite to her unusual beauty;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it was some strange enchantment, <br>Parting her from enormous nature; <br>Nothing darkened her perfect pellucidity, <br>Everything seemed to serve her as frame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At times one would even have said that she thought<br>That all things desired to love her; voluptuously<br>She drowned her nakedness</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In kisses of satin and linen, <br>And, slow or sudden, in each movement <br>Showed the childlike grace of the monkey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>[The original publication only includes these two sections of the poem]. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">— Translated by Geoffrey Wagner</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=354554" data-title="Un Fantôme (A Phantom) de Charles Baudelaire" data-description="I Les Ténèbres

Dans les caveaux d'insondable tristesse
Où le Destin m'a déjà relégué;
Où jamais n'entre un rayon rose et gai;
Où, seul avec la Nuit, maussade hôtesse,

Je suis comme un peintre qu'un Dieu moqueur
Condamne à peindre, hé..."></div>
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