Les Fleurs Du Mal

Evening Harmony Now comes the eve, when on its stem vibrates Each flower, evaporating like a censer; When sounds and scents in the dark air grow denser; Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates! Each flower evaporates as from a censer; The fiddle like a hurt heart palpitates; Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates; The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser. The fiddle, like a hurt heart, palpitates, A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor. The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser. The sun in its own blood coagulates... A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor, The whole of the bright past resuscitates. The sun in its own blood coagulates... And, monstrance-like, your memory flames intenser! — Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)