Diary of the Plague Year: Day 61 15 May 2020: Quotidian Poetry: Charles Baudelaire (1821 – 1867)

L'INVITATION AU VOYAGE

        Mon enfant, ma soeur,
        Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
        Aimer à loisir,
        Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
        Les soleils mouillés
        De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
        Si mystérieux
        De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
        Des meubles luisants,
        Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
        Les plus rares fleurs
        Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,
        Les riches plafonds,
        Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
        Tout y parlerait
        À l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
        Vois sur ces canaux
        Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
        C'est pour assouvir
        Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
         — Les soleils couchants
         Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
         D'hyacinthe et d'or;
         Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

THE INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE

Child, sister, think of the sweetness of going to that far country to live together! To love at our leisure, to love and to die in the country which is like you! The watery suns of those overcast skies have, for my spirit, the same mysterious charm as your killing eyes, shining through their tears.

There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.

Shining furniture, polished by the years, would decorate our room; the rarest flowers, mingling their scents with the vague perfume of ambergris; the rich ceilings, the deep mirrors, the oriental splendour, everything would speak to the soul in secret its sweet native tongue.

There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.

See, on the canals, the vessels sleeping, their wandering humour stilled; it is to satisfy your every desire that they have come from the ends of the earth. The setting suns clothe the fields, the canals, the whole city, in hyacinth and gold; the world is falling asleep in a warm light.

There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.

Diary of the Plague Year: Day 33 17 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry John Keats (1795-1821)

 

 

THIS LIVING HAND, NOW WARM AND CAPABLE

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed – see here it is –
I hold it towards you.

FROM:

Love Letters and Poems
of John Keats to Fanny Brawne

Penguin

Diary of the Plague Year: Day 27 11 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry Gerard Manley Hopkins (1884-1889)

Gerard Manley Hopkins

INVERSNAID

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

FROM:

Hopkins

Pocket Poets
Studio Vista, London

Bluestar House
Highgate Hill

Diary of the Plague Year: Day 22 6 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry William Blake (1757-1827)

William Blake

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

From:

Songs of Innocence and Experience
Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul
William Blake

Tate Publishing