Read the poem: “Sonnet of Autumn”

by Charles Baudelaire

Extract of The Flowers of Evil

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American Literature – American Poetry – Charles Baudelaire
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Sonnet XVIII > > >

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Sonnet of Autumn

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They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:
“Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?”
Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise
All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

And will not bare the secret of their shame
To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long,
Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!
Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,
Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,
And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,
Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,
O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

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Translated by F. P. Sturm

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< < < Reversibility
Sonnet XVIII > > >

American Literature – American Poetry – Charles Baudelaire

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Copyright holders –  Public Domain

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