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The Enemy Post by :cliffgog Category :Poems Author :Charles Baudelaire Date :November 2011 Read :1281

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The Enemy

Translator: Cyril Scott

My childhood was nought but a ravaging storm,
Enlivened at times by a brilliant sun;
The rain and the winds wrought such havoc and harm
That of buds on my plot there remains hardly one.

Behold now the Fall of ideas I have reached,
And the shovel and rake one must therefore resume,
In collecting the turf, inundated and breached,
Where the waters dug trenches as deep as a tomb.

And yet these new blossoms, for which I craved,
Will they find in this earth--like a shore that is laved--
The mystical fuel which vigour imparts?

Oh misery!--Time devours our lives,
And the enemy black, which consumeth our hearts
On the blood of our bodies, increases and thrives!

(The end)
Charles Baudelaire's poem: Enemy

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Ill Luck Ill Luck

Ill Luck
Translator: Cyril Scott This heavy burden to uplift, O Sysiphus, thy pluck is required! And even though the heart aspired, Art is long and Time is swift. Afar from sepulchres renowned, To a graveyard, quite apart, Like a broken drum, my heart, Beats the funeral marches' sound. Many a buried jewel sleeps In the long-forgotten deeps, Far from mattock and from sound; Many a flower wafts aloft Its perfumes, like a secret soft,

The Evil Monk (the Cloisters Old, Expounded On Their Walls) The Evil Monk (the Cloisters Old, Expounded On Their Walls)

The Evil Monk (the Cloisters Old, Expounded On Their Walls)
Translator: Cyril Scott The cloisters old, expounded on their walls With paintings, the Beatic Verity, The which--adorning their religious halls, Enriched the frigidness of their Austerity. In days when Christian seeds bloomed o'er the land, Full many a noble monk unknown to-day, Upon the field of tombs would take his stand, Exalting Death in rude and simple way. My soul is a tomb where--bad monk that I be-- I dwell and search its depths from all eternity, And nought