Читать книгу Poems of Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du Mal) - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe Sick Muse
| Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today? Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, And turn about, in your complexion play Madness and horror, cold and taciturn. Green succubus and rosy imp—have they Poured you both fear and love into one glass? Or with his tyrant fist the nightmare, say, Submerged you in some fabulous morass? I wish that, breathing health, your breast might nourish Ever robuster thoughts therein to flourish: And that your Christian blood, in rythmic flow, With those old polysyllables would chime, Where, turn about, reigned Phoebus, sire of rhyme, And Pan, the lord of harvests long ago. |
