Читать книгу Poems of Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du Mal) - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 21
ОглавлениеThe Ideal
| It’s not with smirking beauties of vignettes, The shopsoiled products of a worthless age, With buskined feet and hands for castañets— A heart like mine its longing could assuage. I leave Gavarni, poet of chloroses, His twittering flock, anaemic and unreal. I could not find among such bloodless roses, A flower to match my crimson-hued ideal. To this heart deeper than the deepest canyon, Lady Macbeth would be a fit companion, Crime-puissant dream of Aeschylus; or you, Daughter of Buonarroti, stately Night! Whose charms to suit a Titan’s appetite, You twist, so strange, yet peaceful, to the view. |
