Oracles

58 TRANSLATIONS FROM BAUDELAIRE THE FOUNT OF BLOOD SOMETIMES I think my blood in waves appears, Springs as a fount with music in its tears ; I hear it trickling with long murmuring sound, But search myself in vain to find the wound. Across the city, as in closèd meres, Making the pavements isles, it disappears ; In it all creatures’ thirst relief hath found ; All nature in its scarlet hue is drowned. I have often prayed these fickle wines to weep For one day Lethe on my threatening fear— Wine makes the ear more sharp, the eye more clear. I have sought in Love forgetfulness and sleep— My love’s a bed of needles made to pierce, That drink be given to these women fierce ! LA BEATRICE As I one day to nature made lament In burnt-up lands, calcined of nutriment, As in my musing thought’s vague random dart I slowly poised my dagger o’er my heart, I saw in full noon o’er my forehead form A deathly cloud far pregnant with the storm, That bore a flock of devils vicious Most like to dwarfs cruel and curious.