For A Creole Lady

Off in a perfumed land bathed gently by the sun,
Under a palm tree's shade tinged with a crimson trace,
A place where indolence drops on the eyes like rain,
I met a Creole lady of unstudied grace.

This brown enchantress' skin is warm and light in tone;
Her neck is noble, proud, her manner dignified;
Slender and tall, she goes with huntress' easy stride;
Her smile is tranquil, and her eyes are confident.

Madame, if you should come to place of pride and praise
Beside the green Loire, or by the pleasant Seine,
Adorning ancient mansions with your stately ways

There in the shelter of the shady groves, you'd start
A thousand sonnets blooming in the poets' hearts,
Whom your great eyes would turn to sycophants and slaves.

Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire was a renowned French poet, essayist, and art critic born on April 9, 1821, in Paris, France. Best known for his collection of poems Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil), Baudelaire profoundly influenced the Symbolist and Modernist movements. He led a controversial life, marked by financial difficulties, substance abuse, and relationships with various women. Despite a relatively short life, dying at the age of 46 on August 31, 1867, his work has had a lasting impact on both French and international literature. Baudelaire's writing is characterized by its exploration of beauty, decadence, and the human condition.

Charles Baudelaire

The Remorse Of The Dead

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

Burial

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

The Love Of Illusion

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

Music

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Creole Lady

In a perfumed land caressed by the sun
I found, beneath the trees crimson canopy,
palms from which languor pours on ones
eyes, the veiled charms of a Creole lady.


Her hue pale, but warm, a dark-haired enchantress,
she shows in her necks poise the noblest of manners:
slender and tall, she strides by like a huntress,
tranquil her smile, her eyes full of assurance.


If you traveled, my Lady, to the land of true glory,
the banks of the Seine, or green Loire, a Beauty
worthy of gracing the manors of olden days,


youd inspire, among arbours shadowy secrets,
a thousand sonnets in the hearts of the poets,
whom, more than your blacks, your vast eyes would enslave.

Charles Baudelaire

To A Woman Of Malabar

Your feet are as slender as hands, your hips, to me,
wide enough for the sweetest white girls envy:
to the wise artist your body is sweet and dear,
and your great velvet eyes black without peer.
In the hot blue lands where God gave you your nature
your task is to light a pipe for your master,
to fill up the vessels with cool fragrance
and chase the mosquitoes away when they dance,
and when dawn sings in the plane-trees, afar,
fetch bananas and pineapples from the bazaar.
All day your bare feet go where they wish
as you hum old lost melodies under your breath,
and when evenings red cloak descends overhead
you lie down sweetly on a straw bed,
where humming birds fill your floating dreams,
as graceful and flowery as you it seems.

Happy child, why do you l...

Charles Baudelaire

To A Brown Beggar-Maid

White maiden with the russet hair,
Whose garments, through their holes, declare
That poverty is part of you,
And beauty too.

To me, a sorry bard and mean,
Your youthful beauty, frail and lean,
With summer freckles here and there,
Is sweet and fair.

Your sabots tread the roads of chance,
And not one queen of old romance
Carried her velvet shoes and lace
With half your grace.

In place of tatters far too short
Let the proud garments worn at Court
Fall down with rustling fold and pleat
About your feet;

In place of stockings, worn and old,
Let a keen dagger all of gold
Gleam in your garter for the eyes
Of roués wise;

Let ribbons carelessly untied
Reveal to us the radiant pride
Of your white bosom purer far...

Charles Baudelaire

To A Red-Haired Beggar Girl

Pale girl with russet hair,
Tatters in what you wear
Show us your poverty
And your beauty,

For me, poor poet, in
The frail and freckled skin
Of your young flesh
Is a sweetness.

You move in shoes of wood
More gallantly than could
A velvet-buskined Queen
Playing a scene;

In place of rags for clothes
Let a majestic robe
Trail in its bustling pleats
Down to your feet;

Behind the holes in seams
Let a gold dagger gleam
Laid for the roue's eye
Along your thigh;

Let loosened ribbons, then,
Unveil us for our sins
Two breasts as undisguised
And bright as eyes;

As for your other charms,
Let your resistant arms
Frustrate with saucy blows
The groping rogues;

Pearls of a lu...

Charles Baudelaire

Invitation To The Voyage

My sister, my child
Imagine how sweet
To live there as lovers do!
To kiss as we choose
To love and to die
In that land resembling you!
The misty suns
Of shifting skies
To my spirit are as dear
As the evasions
Of your eyes
That shine behind their tears.

There, all is order and leisure,
Luxury, beauty, and pleasure.

The tables would glow
With the lustre of years
To ornament our room.
The rarest of blooms
Would mingle their scents
With amber's vague perfume.
The ceilings, rich
The mirrors, deep
The splendour of the East
All whisper there
To the silent soul
Her sweet familiar speech.

There, all is order and leisure,
Luxury, beauty, and pleasure.

And these canals
Bear ships at ...

Charles Baudelaire

Far Away from Here

This is the sanctuary
where the prettified young lady,
calm, and always ready,

fans her breasts, aglow,
elbow on the pillow,
hears the fountains flow:

its the room of Dorothea.
The breeze and water distantly
sing their song, mingled here
with sobs to soothe the spoiled childs fear.

From tip to toe, most thoroughly,
her delicate surfaces appear,
oiled with sweet perfumery.
the flowers nearby swoon gracefully.

Charles Baudelaire