Song of Autumn
by Charles Baudelaire

Soon we shall plunge into cold darkness;
Farewell, strong light of our too brief summers!
I already hear falling, with funeral thuds,
The wood resounding on the pavement of the court -


All of winter will gather in my being: anger,
Hate, chills, horror, hard and forced labor,
And, like the sun in its polar hell,
My heart will be only a red icy block.

I listen shuddering to each log that falls;
The scaffold which is being built has not a hollower

My mind is like the tower which falls
Under the blows of the indefatigable heavy battering

It seems to me, lulled by the monotonous thuds,
That somewhere a casket is being nailed in great haste.
For whom? Yesterday it was summer; here is autumn!
This mysterious noise sounds like a departure.

I love the green light of your long eyes,
Sweet beauty, but everything today is bitter for me,
And nothing, neither your love, nor the boudoir, nor

the hearth,
Is worth as much to me as the sun shining over the sea.

But despite all that, love me, tender heart! be maternal,
Even for an ingrate, even for a wicked man;
Lover or sister, be the passing tenderness
Of a glorious autumn or of a setting sun.

A brief task! The grave is waiting; it is avid!
My head resting on your knees, let me
Enjoy, as I grieve for the white torrid summer,
The yellow gentle ray of the earlier season!

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