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TRANSLATIONS FROM BAUDELAIRE 
 
The last crowns unto which a gambler’s fingers cling ; 
A libertine caress from hungry Adeline ; 
The sound of music, lulling, silver, clean, 
Like the far cry of human suffering : 
 
All these, deep bottle !  are of little worth 
Beside the piercing balm thy fertile girth 
Holds in the reverent poet’s lifted soul ; 
To him thou givest youth, and hope, and life, 
And pride, this treasure of all beggar’s strife 
That gives us triumph, Godhead, for its dole. 
 
 
EPILOGUE TO “ GREEN ALPS ” 
 
FAREWELL, my book, whose words I have not given 
One tithe of those fierce fires that in me dwell ! 
Now, after these long nights that I have striven, 
Farewell ! 
 
My spirit burns to know, but may not tell, 
Whether thy leaves, by autumn breezes driven, 
Fly far away beyond the immutable ; 
 
Whether thy soul shall find its home in heaven, 
Or dart far-flaming through the vaults of hell— 
To him that loveth much is much forgiven. 
Farewell !