The Owls

Under the overhanging yews,
The dark owls sit in solemn state,
Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the sun's last fading gleam,
The nightly shades assume their power.

From their still attitude the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each unhappy journey made.

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 Love Of Illusion

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

To the Reader

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

Skeletons Digging

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

At One O'Clock In The Morning

Charles Baudelaire, Simple Poetry

English

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Owls

Under black yew-trees, in the shade,
The owls have kept themselves apart;
Like strange divinities, they dart
The red eye, as they meditate.

They stand like statues, silent, straight
Up to the melancholy time
When, shouldering the sun aside,
Darkness establishes his state.

They teach the sage a lesson here,
That in the world he ought to fear
All movement, uproar, turbulence;

But, drunk on shadows, our strange race
Carries within the punishment
Of having yearned for change of place.

Charles Baudelaire

The Owls - (Twelve Translations From Charles Baudelaire)

    'Neath their black yews in solemn state
        The owls are sitting in a row
        Like foreign gods; and even so
    Blink their red eyes; they meditate.

    Quite motionless they hold them thus
        Until at last the day is done,
        And driving down the slanting sun,
    The sad night is victorious.

    They teach the wise who gives them ear
    That in this world he most should fear
        All things which loud or restless be.

    Who, dazzled by a passing shade,
        Follows it, never will be free
    Till the dread penalty be paid.

John Collings Squire, Sir

Calm

Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.
You asked for night: it falls: it is here.
A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill,
to some men bringing peace, to others care.

While the vile human multitude
goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasures play,
under the lash of joy, the torturer, who
is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away:

Give me your hand. See, where the lost years
lean from the balcony in their outdated gear,
where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps.

Underneath some archway, the dying light
sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East,
listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.

Charles Baudelaire

The Leaves That Rustled On This Oak-Crowned Hill

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,
And sky that danced among those leaves, are still;
Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower
Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power
On drooping eyelid and the closing flower;
Sound is there none at which the faintest heart
Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;
Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream
Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the gleam
Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream,
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird
Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.

Grave Creature! whether, while the moon shines bright
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower,
Rising from what ma...

William Wordsworth

The Beacons

Ubens, oblivious garden of indolence,
Pillow of cool flesh where no man dreams of love,
Where life flows forth in troubled opulence,
As airs in heaven and seas in ocean move.

Leonard Da Vinci, sombre and fathomless glass,
Where lovely angels with calm lips that smile,
Heavy with mystery, in the shadow pass,
Among the ice and pines that guard some isle.

Rembrandt, sad hospital that a murmuring fills,
Where one tall crucifix hangs on the walls,
Where every tear-drowned prayer some woe distils,
And one cold, wintry ray obliquely falls.

Strong Michelangelo, a vague far place
Where mingle Christs with pagan Hercules;
Thin phantoms of the great through twilight pace,
And tear their shroud with clenched hands void of ease.

The fighter's anger,...

Charles Baudelaire

The Walk At Midnight

Soft, shadowy moon-beam! by the light
Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale:
How various are the sounds of night,
Borne on the scarely-rising gale!

The swell of distant brook is heard,
Whose far-off waters faintly roll;
And piping of the shrill small bird,
Arrested by the wandring owl.

Come hither! let us thread with care
The maze of this green path, which binds
The beauties of the broad parterre,
And thro yon fragrant alley winds.

Or on this old bench will we sit,
Round which the clustring woodine wreathes;
While birds of night around us flit;
And thro each lavish wood-walk breathes,

Unto my ravishd senses, brought
From yon thick-woven odorous bowers,
The still rich breeze, with incense fraught
Of glowing fruits and sp...

Alfred Lord Tennyson