Spleen by Charles Baudelaire (translated by Norman R. Shapiro)
When, on our groaning, ennui-ridden soul,
The heavens hang low, weigh like a lid, pressed tight;
When, circling the horizon like a bowl,
They pour a daylight sad as blackest night;
.
When earth turns dungeon dank, where Hope, much like
A bat, entrapped, in desperation seems
To flail the walls with timid wing, and strike
Her head against the ceiling’s rotting beams;
.
When cloudbursts rend the air and, roundabout,
Form a vast prison cell with bars of rain;
And when a host of spiders, mute, set out
To weave their loathsome webs deep in our brain;
.
Then, all at once, wild bells leap to the fore
And hurl a frightful clamor at the sky,
Like spirits, wandering homeless, that deplore
Their grievous fate with endless, doleful cry.
.
— And in my soul hearses proceed apace —
No drums, no fanfare — long their march and slow;
Hope, beaten, weeps; and Woe, brash tyrant base,
Plants his black pennant in my skull, bowed low.
This poem was selected by Russell J. (Readers’ Services)
