The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire Part 11

For I will plunge deep in the pleasure still Of summoning the spring-time with my will, Drawing the sun out of my heart, and there With burning thoughts making a summer air.

THE VOYAGE.

The world is equal to the child's desire Who plays with pictures by his nursery fire-- How vast the world by lamplight seems! How small When memory's eyes look back, remembering all!--

One morning we set forth with thoughts aflame, Or heart o'erladen with desire or shame; And cradle, to the song of surge and breeze, Our own infinity on the finite seas.

Some flee the memory of their childhood's home; And others flee their fatherland; and some, Star-gazers drowned within a woman's eyes, Flee from the tyrant Circe's witcheries;

And, lest they still be changed to beasts, take flight For the embrasured heavens, and s.p.a.ce, and light, Till one by one the stains her kisses made In biting cold and burning sunlight fade.

But the true voyagers are they who part From all they love because a wandering heart Drives them to fly the Fate they cannot fly; Whose call is ever "On!"--they know not why.

Their thoughts are like the clouds that veil a star; They dream of change as warriors dream of war; And strange wild wishes never twice the same: Desires no mortal man can give a name.

II.

We are like whirling tops and rolling b.a.l.l.s-- For even when the sleepy night-time falls, Old Curiosity still thrusts us on, Like the cruel Angel who goads forth the sun.

The end of fate fades ever through the air, And, being nowhere, may be anywhere Where a man runs, hope waking in his breast, For ever like a madman, seeking rest.

Our souls are wandering ships outwearied; And one upon the bridge asks: "What's ahead?"

The topman's voice with an exultant sound Cries: "Love and Glory!"--then we run aground.

Each isle the pilot signals when 'tis late, Is El Dorado, promised us by fate-- Imagination, spite of her belief, Finds, in the light of dawn, a barren reef.

Oh the poor seeker after lands that flee!

Shall we not bind and cast into the sea This drunken sailor whose ecstatic mood Makes bitterer still the water's weary flood?

Such is an old tramp wandering in the mire, Dreaming the paradise of his own desire, Discovering cities of enchanted sleep Where'er the light shines on a rubbish heap.

III.

Strange voyagers, what tales of n.o.ble deeds Deep in your dim sea-weary eyes one reads!

Open the casket where your memories are, And show each jewel, fashioned from a star;

For I would travel without sail or wind, And so, to lift the sorrow from my mind, Let your long memories of sea-days far fled Pa.s.s o'er my spirit like a sail outspread.

What have you seen?

IV.

"We have seen waves and stars, And lost sea-beaches, and known many wars, And notwithstanding war and hope and fear, We were as weary there as we are here.

"The lights that on the violet sea poured down, The suns that set behind some far-off town, Lit in our hearts the unquiet wish to fly Deep in the glimmering distance of the sky;

"The loveliest countries that rich cities bless, Never contained the strange wild loveliness By fate and chance shaped from the floating cloud-- And we were always sorrowful and proud!

"Desire from joy gains strength in weightier measure.

Desire, old tree who draw'st thy sap from pleasure, Though thy bark thickens as the years pa.s.s by, Thine arduous branches rise towards the sky;

"And wilt thou still grow taller, tree more fair Than the tall cypress?

--Thus have we, with care, Gathered some flowers to please your eager mood, Brothers who dream that distant things are good!

"We have seen many a jewel-glimmering throne; And bowed to Idols when wild horns were blown In palaces whose faery pomp and gleam To your rich men would be a ruinous dream;

"And robes that were a madness to the eyes; Women whose teeth and nails were stained with dyes; Wise jugglers round whose neck the serpent winds--"

V.

And then, and then what more?

VI.

"O childish minds!

"Forget not that which we found everywhere, From top to bottom of the fatal stair, Above, beneath, around us and within, The weary pageant of immortal sin.

"We have seen woman, stupid slave and proud, Before her own frail, foolish beauty bowed; And man, a greedy, cruel, lascivious fool, Slave of the slave, a ripple in a pool;

"The martyrs groan, the headsman's merry mood; And banquets seasoned and perfumed with blood; Poison, that gives the tyrant's power the slip; And nations amorous of the brutal whip;

"Many religions not unlike our own, All in full flight for heaven's resplendent throne; And Sanct.i.ty, seeking delight in pain, Like a sick man of his own sickness vain;

"And mad mortality, drunk with its own power, As foolish now as in a bygone hour, Shouting, in presence of the tortured Christ: 'I curse thee, mine own Image sacrificed.'

"And silly monks in love with Lunacy, Fleeing the troops herded by destiny, Who seek for peace in opiate slumber furled-- Such is the pageant of the rolling world!"

VII.

O bitter knowledge that the wanderers gain!

The world says our own age is little and vain; For ever, yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, 'Tis horror's oasis in the sands of sorrow.

Must we depart? If you can rest, remain; Part, if you must. Some fly, some cower in vain, Hoping that Time, the grim and eager foe, Will pa.s.s them by; and some run to and fro

Like the Apostles or the Wandering Jew; Go where they will, the Slayer goes there too!

And there are some, and these are of the wise, Who die as soon as birth has lit their eyes.