Song of Autumn

 

(Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash)

Song of Autumn

I

Soon we shall plunge into cold darkness;

Farewell, strong light of our too brief summers!

I already hear falling, with funereal thuds,

The wood resounding on the pavement of the courtyards.

All of winter will gather in my being: anger,

Hate, chills, horror, hard and forced labor,

And, like the sun in its polar hell,

My heart will be only a red icy block.

I listen shuddering to each log that falls;

The scaffold which is being built has not a hollower echo.

My mind is like the tower which falls

Under the blows of the indefatigable heavy battering ram.

It seems to me, lulled by the monotonous thuds,

That somewhere a casket is being nailed in great haste.

For whom? Yesterday it was summer; here is autumn!

This mysterious noise sounds like a departure.

II

I love the green light of your long eyes,

Sweet beauty, but everything today is bitter for me,

And nothing, neither your love, nor the boudoir, nor the hearth,

Is worth as much to me as the sun shining over the sea.

But despite all that, love me, tender heart! be maternal,

Even for an ingrate, even for a wicked man;

Lover or sister, be the passing tenderness

Of a glorious autumn or of a setting sun.

A brief task! The grave is waiting; it is avid!

My head resting on your knees, let me

Enjoy, as I grieve for the white torrid summer,

The yellow gentle ray of the earlier season!

~Charles Baudelaire, translated by Wallace Fowlie, from The Flowers of Evil~

BIO: Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a French poet, art critic, essayist, and translator whose innovative style influenced such poets as Paul Verlaine, Stephane Mallarme, and Arthur Rimbaud. A close friend of painter Edouard Manet, he is best known for his collection The Flowers of Evil.