À Celle qui est trop gaie



Ta tête, ton geste, ton air

Sont beaux comme un beau paysage;

Le rire joue en ton visage

Comme un vent frais dans un ciel clair.



Le passant chagrin que tu frôles

Est ébloui par la santé

Qui jaillit comme une clarté

De tes bras et de tes épaules.



Les retentissantes couleurs

Dont tu parsèmes tes toilettes

Jettent dans l'esprit des poètes

L'image d'un ballet de fleurs.



Ces robes folles sont l'emblème

De ton esprit bariolé;

Folle dont je suis affolé,

Je te hais autant que je t'aime!



Quelquefois dans un beau jardin

Où je traînais mon atonie,

J'ai senti, comme une ironie,

Le soleil déchirer mon sein,



Et le printemps et la verdure

Ont tant humilié mon coeur,

Que j'ai puni sur une fleur

L'insolence de la Nature.



Ainsi je voudrais, une nuit,

Quand l'heure des voluptés sonne,

Vers les trésors de ta personne,

Comme un lâche, ramper sans bruit,



Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,

Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,

Et faire à ton flanc étonné

Une blessure large et creuse,



Et, vertigineuse douceur!

À travers ces lèvres nouvelles,

Plus éclatantes et plus belles,

T'infuser mon venin, ma soeur!

— Charles Baudelaire

To One Who Is Too Gay



Your head, your bearing, your gestures

Are fair as a fair countryside;

Laughter plays on your face

Like a cool wind in a clear sky.



The gloomy passer-by you meet

Is dazzled by the glow of health

Which radiates resplendently

From your arms and shoulders.



The touches of sonorous color

That you scatter on your dresses

Cast into the minds of poets

The image of a flower dance.



Those crazy frocks are the emblem

Of your multi-colored nature;

Mad woman whom I'm mad about,

I hate and love you equally!



At times in a lovely garden

Where I dragged my atony,

I have felt the sun tear my breast,

As though it were in mockery;



Both the springtime and its verdure

So mortified my heart

That I punished a flower

For the insolence of Nature.



Thus I should like, some night,

When the hour for pleasure sounds,

To creep softly, like a coward,

Toward the treasures of your body,



To whip your joyous flesh

And bruise your pardoned breast,

To make in your astonished flank

A wide and gaping wound,



And, intoxicating sweetness!

Through those new lips,

More bright, more beautiful,

To infuse my venom, my sister!



— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)



To One Who Is Too Gay

Your head, your gestures, and your air

Are lovely as a landscape; smiles

Rimple upon your face at whiles

Like winds in the clear sky up there.



The grumpy passers that you graze

Are dazzled by the radiant health,

And the illimitable wealth

Your arms and shoulders seem to blaze.



The glaring colours that, in showers,

Clash in your clothes with such commotion,

In poets' minds suggest the notion

Of a mad ballet-dance of flowers.



These garish dresses illustrate

Your spirit, striped with every fad.

O madwoman, whom, quite as mad,

I love as madly as I hate.



Sometimes in gardens, seeking rest,

Where I have dragged my soul atonic,

I've felt the sun with gaze ironic

Tearing the heart within my breast.



The spring and verdure, dressed to stagger,

Humiliate me with such power

That I have punished, in a flower,

The insolence of Nature's swagger.



And so, one night, I'd like to sneak,

When night has tolled the hour of pleasure,

A craven thief, towards the treasure

Which is your person, plump and sleek.



To punish your bombastic flesh,

To bruise your breast immune to pain,

To farrow down your flank a lane

Of gaping crimson, deep and fresh.



And, most vertiginous delight!

Into those lips, so freshly striking

And daily lovelier to my liking —

Infuse the venom of my sprite.



— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)



A Girl Too Gay



Oh, you are lovely! Every heart

Surrenders to your sorceries;

And laughter, like a playful breeze,

Is always blowing your lips apart.



Your health is radiant, infinite,

Superb: When you go down the street

Each mournful passerby you meet

Is dazzled by the blaze of it!



Your startling dresses, overwrought

With rainbow hues and sequined showers,

Bring to a poet's mind the thought

Of a ballet of drunken flowers.



They are the very symbol of

Your gay and crudely colored soul,

As stripèd as a barber's pole,

Exuberant thing I hate and love!



Sometimes when wandering, full of gloom,

In a bright garden, I have felt

Horror for all I touched and smelt:

The world outrageously in bloom,



The blinding yellow sun, the spring's

Raw verdure so rebuked my woes

That I have punished upon a rose

The insolence of flowering things.



Likewise, some evening, I would creep,

When midnight sounds, and everywhere

The sighing of lovers fills the air,

To the hushed alcove where you sleep,



And waken you by violent storm,

And beat you coldly till you swooned,

And carve upon your perfect form,

With care, a deep seductive wound —



And (joy delirious and complete!)

Through those bright novel lips, through this

Gaudy and virgin orifice,

Infuse you with my venom, sweet.



— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)



À Celle Qui Est Trop Gaie



Your head, your stance, your airy grace

Are as a landscape in July,

Blithe laughter plays upon your face

Like a cool wind in a clear sky.



The sorry passerby you sight

Is dazzled by the glowing charms

That issue in a radiant light

Over your shoulders and your arms.



Over your blaring frocks we find

Wild colors strewn with elegance

That rouse within the poet's mind

The image of a flower dance.



Your crazy gowns are emblems of

Your own variegated state,

Madwoman, whom I madly love

And whom I quite as madly hate.



At times in gardens where, oppressed,

I dragged my stubborn atony,

I felt gold sunlight rend my breast

As if in bitter raillery.



Both springtime and its verdant bowers

So mortified my heart and sense

That I chastised the budding flowers

Because of Nature's insolence.



Thus I should like some night, when deep

The hour tolls out for hidden pleasures,

Softly and cravenly to creep

Close to your body's lavish treasures.



(Last two stanzas cut off — censored? — in original publication.)

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)



To Her Who Is Too Gay



Your head, your gesture, your air

Are beautiful as a beautiful landscape;

The smile plays in your face

Like a fresh wind in a clear sky.



The fleeting care that you brush against

Is dazzled by the health

Which leaps like clarity

From your arms and your shoulders.



The re-echoing colors

Which you scatter in your toilet

Cast in the hearts of poets

The image of a ballet of flowers.



These silly clothes are the emblem

Of your many-colored spirit;

Silly woman of my infatuation,

I hate as much as love you!



Sometimes in a pretty garden

Where I dragged my weakness,

I have felt the sun like irony

Tear my chest;



And the spring and the green of things

Have so humbled my heart,

That I have punished a flower

For the insolence of Nature.



Thus I would wish, one night,

When the voluptuary's hour sounds,

To crawl like a coward, noiselessly,

Towards the treasures of your body,



In order to correct your gay flesh

And beat your unbegrudging breast,

To make upon your starting thigh

A long and biting weal,



And, sweet giddiness,

Along those newly-gaping lips

More vivid and more beautiful,

Inject my venom, O my sister!



— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)

