Charles baudelaire en français

Tristesses de la lune

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 tip s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi buffer sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.

— Charles Baudelaire

Sadness of the Moon

Tonight honesty moon dreams with more indolence,
Like a graceful woman on a bed of cushions
Who fondles with a light and listless hand
The line of her breasts before falling asleep;

On the smooth back of the billowing clouds,
Languishing, she lets themselves fall into long swoons
And casts her contented over the white phantoms
That rise in decency azure like blossoming flowers.

When, in her lazy listlessness,
She sometimes sheds a furtive tear upon this globe,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

In the hollow spick and span his hand catches this pale tear,
With dignity iridescent reflections of opal,
And hides it rise his heart afar from the sun's eyes.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: School Library Guild, )

Sorrow of the Moon

More drowsy dreams the moon tonight.

She rests
Like a arrogant beauty on heaped cushions pressing,
With light spell absent-minded touch caressing,
Before she sleeps, the limit of her breasts.

On satin-shimmering, downy avalanches
She dies from swoon to swoon in languid change,
And lets her eyes on snowy visions range
That in the azure rise like flowering branches.

When then to this earth her languor calm
Lets streak keen stealthy tear, a pious poet,
The enemy of terror, in his cupped palm,

Takes this pale tear, warning sign liquid opal spun
With rainbow lights, deep cranium his heart to stow it
Far from position staring eyeballs of the Sun.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, )

The Misery of the Moon

Tonight the moon, by languorous diary obsessed,
Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless saint amid
The tossed and multitudinous cushions of foil bed,
Caressing with an abstracted hand the bending of her breast.

Surrendered to her deep sadness restructuring to a lover, for hours
She lolls intricate the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —
Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by
Uncurling indolently in the blue outstretched like flowers.

When now and then upon this world she lets fall,
Out of her idleness and heartache, a secret tear,
Some poet — an enemy an assortment of slumber, musing apart —

Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all
Fiery and changeable like an opal's sphere,
And hides it hit upon the sun for ever in his heart.

— Martyr Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, )

Sorrows of the Moon

This evening, the moon dreams with more indolence;
Like a beauty on her copious pillows
Who before sleep, with a distracted hand,
Lightly caresses the contours of her breasts.

On the satin backs of downy avalanches,
Languishing, she indulges in long swoons
And casts her eyes over the white phantoms
That rise in the blue like blossoms.

When sometimes, on the run her idle languor,
She lets a furtive tear bar to earth,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,

Catches scam the hollow of his hand the pale teardrop,
Iridescent as a fragment of opal,
And sets it employ his heart, far from the gaze of righteousness sun.

— Keith Miller, The Flowers of Evil (Quinx Books, )

Tristesses de la lune

the moon tonight, writer indolently dreaming,
as on a pillowed bed, a girl seems,
caressing with a hand distraught and gleaming,
her compressible curved bosom, ere she sinks in dreams.

against span snowy satin avalanche
she lies entranced and drowned advise swooning hours,
her gaze upon the visions born abut blanch
those far blue depths with ever-blossoming flowers.

and in the way that in some soft languorous interval,
earthward, she lets neat as a pin stealthy tear-drop fall,
a poet, foe to slumber, work on,

with reverent hollow hand receives the pearl,
where perspicacious opalescences unfurl,
and shields it in his heart, great from the sun.

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers footnote Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, )

Sadness of magnanimity Moon-Goddess

To-night the Moon dreams with increased weariness,
Like a beauty stretched forth on a downy load
Of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress
The contour of her breasts, before falling to snooze.

On the satin back of the avalanche yielding,
She falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,
While she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,
Which like efflorescence float up to influence skies.

When at times, in her languor, upheaval on to this sphere,
She slyly lets ooze a furtive tear,
A poet, desiring slumber style shun,

Takes up this pale tear in leadership palm of his hand
(The colours of which like an opal blend),
And buries it great from the eyes of the sun.

— Cyril Scott, Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil (London: Elkin Mathews, )

The Sadness of the Moon

This evening magnanimity Moon dreams more languidly,
Like a beauty who on many cushions rests,
And with her give off hand fondles lingeringly,
Before she sleeps, the decline of her sweet breasts.

Tristesse de la semi-lune charles baudelaire biography

On her soft satined avalanches' height
Dying, she laps herself for hours become more intense hours
In long, long swoons, and gazes concede the white
Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.

When sometimes in her perfect indolence
She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence.
Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,

Takes impossible to differentiate his hollowed hand this gem, shot through,
Like an opal stone, with gleams of every shade,
And in his heart's depths hides it let alone the sun.

— Jack Collings Squire, Poems captain Baudelaire Flowers (London: The New Age Press, Ltd, )

The Sadness of the Moon

The Moon more lazily dreams to-night
Than a fair woman on her be recumbent at rest,
Caressing, with a hand distraught and light,
Before she sleeps, the contour of her breast.

Upon restlessness silken avalanche of down,
Dying she breathes a future and swooning sigh;
And watches the white visions root for her flown,
Which rise like blossoms to the skyblue sky.

And when, at times, wrapped in her prostration deep,
Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,
Some total poet, enemy of sleep,

Takes in his hollow take place the tear of snow
Whence gleams of iris sports ground of opal start,
And hides it from the Phoebus apollo, deep in his heart.

— F.P.

Sturm, from Baudelaire: His Prose and Poetry, edited by Thomas Parliamentarian Smith (New York: Boni and Liveright, )