Читать книгу THE FLOWERS OF EVIL - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 7

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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 today,

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 bedecks the walls of the odious spot.

Oh sluggard monk! when shall I glean aright

From the living spectacle of my bitter lot,

To mold my handywork and mine eyes’ Delight?