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(9 April 1821 – 31 August 1867 / Paris)

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Autumn

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.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: summer, autumn, hate, winter, red, sun

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Comments about this poem (Bohémiens En Voyage (Gypsies On The Road) by Charles Baudelaire )

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  • Ms Acras (8/11/2009 2:46:00 AM)

    I think Autumn must have been on of my ex-boyfriends.

    4 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Megan Fabry (10/20/2004 2:13:00 AM)

    Charles is an amazing poet...he brings you to the place where you fear the most..truth

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