Читать книгу Poems of Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du Mal) - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThe Evil Monk
| The walls of cloisters on their frescoed lath Displayed, in pictures, sacred truths of old, Whose sight would warm the entrails of one’s faith To temper their austerity and cold. In times when every sowing flowered for Christ Lived famous monks, now out of memory’s reach; The graveyard for their library sufficed, And Death was glorified in simple speech. My soul’s a grave, where, evil cenobite, To all eternity I have been banned. Nothing adorns this cloister full of spite. O idle monk! Say, to what end were planned The living spectacle of my sad plight, Love of my eye, or labour of my hand? |
