The Fountain
by
Charles Baudelaire
Stay
one moment as you are In the tired pose where pleasure.
Touched you, closing
your sad stare, Leaving you innocent, gay and pure. In the courtyard the perpetual
fountain Ruminates nightly and daily; Its whisper prolongs the ecstasy Which you
and the evening have given. The fountain's lifted sheaf Of wavering flowers Where
moonlight darts as if To disclose all its colours Falls in a wide scarf Of shining
tears. So your secret soul, summoned By the electric touch of pleasure, Springs,
confident of its end, To the huge sky's mysterious lure; Then pauses, hesitates,
expands In a wide reluctant shower Which inevitably descends To where my heart
hides for its hour. The fountain's lifted sheaf Of wavering flowers Where moonlight
darts as if To disclose all its colours Falls in a wide scarf Of shining tears.
Oh you whom the dark brightens, my heart Swaying between your breasts, listens
To that other heart whose beat Is heard incessantly in the fountain's. Musical
water, moon, trees Whose shiver surrounds the dark shine Of night opening into
mysteries, Your sad clarity mirrors mine. The fountain's lifted sheaf Of wavering
flowers Where moonlight darts as if To disclose all its colours Falls in a wide
scarf Of shining tears. | |
