CONTEMPLATION | Poem by Charles Baudelaire
THOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,
The eve is thine which even now drops down,
To carry peace or care to human will,
And in a misty veil enfolds the town.
While the vile mortals of the multitude,
By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on,
Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood–
Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone
Far from them.
Lo, see how the vanished years,
In robes outworn lean over heaven’s rim;
And from the water, smiling through her tears,
Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim;
And in the east, her long shroud trailing light,
List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night.