Beauty
I am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone,
And my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn,
To inspire the love of a poet is prone,
Like matter eternally silent and stern.
As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile,
My heart a swan's whiteness with granite combines,
And I hate every movement, displacing the lines,
And never I weep and never I smile.
The poets in front of mine attitudes fine
(Which the proudest of monuments seem to implant),
To studies profound all their moments asign,
For I have all these docile swains to enchant-
Two mirrors, which Beauty in all things ignite:
Mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal Light!
Princess Haiku listened to rain strike like little cat paws on her window. November twilight was covering the world outside with an opal mist of rain. Such a perfect night to remember the far past and muse on the poetry of Baudelaire, she thought. Why is it that in the midst of busy lives we can still be all alone?
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4 comments:
I find that its mostly easy to be alone at the busiest of times. Too much nothing going on in the storm of no connections.
Thanks for the reference to "Death by Landscape" on my blog. I think that's in "Wilderness Tips" which I read back in my Atwood days but don't really remember well. Something about camp and a lost girl. I must re-read that one.
Hi goatman! Yes, you are right-that's the book.
Baudelaire... I was twice to see his grave in Paris...
You ever know how to photography flowers. You did not forgot during the time you were no more blogging...
Is his grave in Pere Lachaise?
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