Charles Baudelaire (9 April 1821 – 31 August 1867 / Paris)
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
Poet Other Poems
- À Une Dame Créole (To A Creole Lady)
- A Une Madone (To A Madonna)
- Alchimie de la douleur (The Alchemy of S...
- Anywhere Out of the World
- At One O'Clock In The Morning
- Au Lecteur
- Avec ses vêtements ondoyants et nacrés (...
- Be Drunk
- Bénédiction (Benediction)
- Bertha’s Eyes
- Bohémiens En Voyage (Gypsies On The Road...
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.