Читать книгу THE FLOWERS OF EVIL - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 6

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Oh Muse of my heart – so fond of palaces old,

Wilt have – when New Year speeds its wintry blast,

Amid those tedious nights, with snow o’ercast,

A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?

Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive

With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep?

And – void thy purse and void thy palace – reap

A golden hoard within some azure hive?

Thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night,

Suspend the censer like an acolyte,

Te–Deums sing, with sanctimonious ease,

Or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene

Essay to lull the vulgar rabble’s spleen;

Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.