The Ideal

________________________________________________
Title:     The Ideal
Author: Charles Baudelaire [More Titles by Baudelaire]

Translator: Cyril Scott

It could ne'er be those beauties of ivory vignettes;
The varied display of a worthless age,
Nor puppet-like figures with castonets,
That ever an heart like mine could engage.

I leave to Gavarni, that poet of chlorosis,
His hospital-beauties in troups that whirl,
For I cannot discover amid his pale roses
A flower to resemble my scarlet ideal.

Since, what for this fathomless heart I require
Is--Lady Macbeth you! in crime so dire;
--An Æschylus dream transposed from the South--

Or thee, oh great "Night" of Michael-Angelo born,
Who so calmly thy limbs in strange posture hath drawn,
Whose allurements are framed for a Titan's mouth.

[The end]
Charles Baudelaire's poem: Ideal

________________________________________________



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN