Читать книгу Poems of Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du Mal) - Charles Baudelaire - Страница 26
ОглавлениеHer Hair
| O fleece that down her nape rolls, plume on plume! O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease! What ecstacy! To populate this room With memories it harbours in its gloom, I’d shake it like a banner on the breeze. Hot Africa and languid Asia play (An absent world, defunct, and far away) Within that scented forest, dark and dim. As other souls on waves of music swim, Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray. I’ll journey there, where man and sap-filled tree Swoon in hot light for hours. Be you my sea, Strong tresses! Be the breakers and gales That waft me. Your black river holds, for me, A dream of masts and rowers, flames and sails. A port, resounding there, my soul delivers With long deep draughts of perfumes, scent, and clamour, Where ships, that glide through gold and purple rivers, Fling wide their vast arms to embrace the glamour Of skies wherein the heat forever quivers. I’ll plunge my head in it, half drunk with pleasure— In this black ocean that engulfs her form. My soul, caressed with wavelets there may measure Infinite rockings in embalmèd leisure, Creative idleness that fears no storm!Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent, You shed the blue of heavens round and far. Along its downy fringes as I went I reeled half-drunken to confuse the scent Of oil of coconuts, with musk and tar. My hand forever in your mane so dense, Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow, That you to my desire be never slow— Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whence Deep-draughted wines of memory will flow. |
