Ah, when thou shalt slumber, my darkling love,
Beneath a black marble-made statuette,
And when thou’lt have nought for thy house or alcove,
But a cavernous den and a damp oubliette.
When the tomb-stone, oppressing thy timorous breast,
And thy hips drooping sweetly with listless decay,
The pulse and desires of mine heart shall arrest,
And thy feet from pursuing their adventurous way,
Then the grave, that dark friend of my limitless dreams
(For the grave ever readeth the poet aright),
Amid those long nights, which no slumber redeems”?
‘Twill query “What use to thee, incomplete spright
That thou ne’er hast unfathomed the tears of the dead?”
Then the worms will gnaw deep at thy body like Dread.
~The Flowers of Evil, Les Fleurs du mal, by Charles Baudelaire
(…If rape or arson, poison or the knife
Has wove no pleasing patterns in the stuff
Of this drab canvas we accept as life–
It is because we are not bold enough.
~Beaudelaire, To the Reader)
Image: Dark fleur by The Wit Continuum