Oracles

60 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 !