Harmonic Du Soir
Voici venir le
Now is the hour when, swinging in the breeze,
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet.
The air is full of scents and melodies,
O languorous waltz !
O swoon of dancing feet!
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet,
The violins are like sad souls that cry,
O languorous waltz !
O swoon of dancing feet!
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.
The violins are like sad souls that cry,
Poor souls that hate the vast. black night of Death ;
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.
This soul that hates the vast black night of
Takes all the luminous past back tenderly,
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.
Thine image like a monstrance shines in me.
Taken from the French of Baudelaire
Lord Alfred Douglas
Other author posts
To Shakespeare
Most tuneful singer, lover tenderest, Most sad, most piteous, and most musical, Thine is the shrine more pilgrim-worn than The shrines of singers; high above the
The Garden Of Death
There is an isle in an unfurrowed That I wot of, whereon the whole year The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds In early blooming ; and a many
Jonquil And Fleur-de-lys
Jonquil was a shepherd lad, White he was as the curded cream, Hair like the buttercups he had, And wet green eyes like a full chalk
Ennui
Alas and oh that Spring should come Upon the soft wings of desired days, And bring with her no anodyne to pain,