  Be calmer, O my Grief, be quieter: The dusk you craved enfolds us; everywhere The twilight veil of blue-grey gossamer Falls, bringing peace to some, to others care. While thralls of Pleasure, that most merciless Of tyrants, hasten to his board (although His wine is gall, and his fruit, bitterness), Come with me, O my Grief, and let us go Far from them. See the bygone years that throng Heaven's balconies; see smiling Sorrow, strong In fortitude, rise from the waters; see The dying sun, low sinking, disappear Beyond the verge. The rustling mystery Of night approaches—hear, beloved, hear. From the French of Baudelaire |
|
