La mort baudelairienne

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika

 

La Mort des pauvres

C'est la Mort qui console, hélas! et qui fait vivre;
C'est le but de la vie, et c'est le seul espoir
Qui, comme un élixir, nous monte et nous enivre,
Et nous donne le coeur de marcher jusqu'au soir;

À travers la tempête, et la neige, et le givre,
C'est la clarté vibrante à notre horizon noir
C'est l'auberge fameuse inscrite sur le livre,
Où l'on pourra manger, et dormir, et s'asseoir;

C'est un Ange qui tient dans ses doigts magnétiques
Le sommeil et le don des rêves extatiques,
Et qui refait le lit des gens pauvres et nus;

C'est la gloire des Dieux, c'est le grenier mystique,
C'est la bourse du pauvre et sa patrie antique,
C'est le portique ouvert sur les Cieux inconnus!

— Charles Baudelaire

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of the Poor

It's Death that comforts us, alas! and makes us live;
It is the goal of life; it is the only hope
Which, like an elixir, makes us inebriate
And gives us the courage to march until evening;

Through the storm and the snow and the hoar-frost
It is the vibrant light on our black horizon;
It is the famous inn inscribed upon the book,
Where one can eat, and sleep, and take his rest;

It's an Angel who holds in his magnetic hands
Sleep and the gift of ecstatic dreams
And who makes the beds for the poor, naked people;

It's the glory of the gods, the mystic granary,
It is the poor man's purse, his ancient fatherland,
It is the portal opening on unknown Skies!

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

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of Paupers

It's Death comforts us, alas! and makes us live.
It is the goal of life, it brings us hope,
And, like a rich elixir, seems to give
Courage to march along the darkening slope.

Across the tempest, hail, and hoarfrost, look!
Along the black horizon, a faint gleam!
It is the inn that's written in the book
Where one can sleep, and eat, and sit and dream.

An Angel, in magnetic hands it holds
Sleep and the gift of sweet ecstatic dreams,
And makes a bed for poor and naked souls.

It is God's glory and the mystic grange:
The poor man's purse and fatherland it seems,
And door that opens Heavens vast and strange.

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

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of the Poor

Death? Death is our one comfort! — is the bread whereby
We live, the wine that warms us when all hope is gone;
The very goal of Life. That we shall one day die:
This is the thought which gives us courage to go on.

Clear on the black horizon, through the blinding sleet,
That beacon burns; — oh, Death, thou inn of wide renown!
Is it not written in the book: "Here all may eat;
Here there is rest for all; here all may sit them down?"

Thou hovering Angel, holding in thy magic hand
Slumber and blissful dreams; thou Glory overhead;
Mysterious attic, filled with treasures manifold;

The poor man's purse, and his remembered fatherland;
Thou, that remakest nightly the beggar's crumpled bed;
Thou only door ajar, pledge of the peace foretold!

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

La Mort des pauvres

'tis Death that helps us live, 'tis Death consoles;
Death is life's goal; 'tis the one hope that cheers,
and, like a cordial, spurs our slackening souls,
bestowing strength to march till night appears;

through snow and hoar-frost, where the tempest rolls
toward the black hills, Death's leaping fire veers;
Death is the famous Inn the Book extols,
where we shall dine and rest among our peers;

Death is an angel, with his fingers full
of magic sleep and dreams most wonderful,
— who smoothes the bed whereon the beggar lies;

Death is the glory of the gods, the gold
all poor folk hoard, their fatherland of old,
Death is the portal wide to unknown skies!

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

 

Source : http://fleursdumal.org/poem/198