Recueillement  

6/30/2008 4:34 am

Meditation. Be quiet and more discreet, O my Grief. You cried out for the Evening; even now it falls: A gloomy atmosphere envelops the city, Bringing peace to some, anxiety to others. While the vulgar herd of mortals, under the scourge Of Pleasure, that merciless torturer, Goes to gather remorse in the servile festival, My Grief, give me your hand; come this way Far from them. See the dead years in old-fashioned gowns Lean over the balconies of heaven; Smiling Regret rise from the depths of the waters; The dying Sun fall asleep beneath an arch, and Listen, Darling, to the soft footfalls of the Night That traits off to the East like a long winding-sheet. Charles BAUDELAIRE -Recueillement- Les Fleurs du Mal Trad. from W. Aggeler.