Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire; April 9, 1821 – August 31, 1867) was a French poet who also produced notable work as an essayist, art critic, and pioneering translator of Edgar Allan Poe...
NationalityFrench
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 April 1821
CityParis, France
CountryFrance
memories winter night
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
morning fall winter
As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning, . . . [then] they fall down the curtains.
winter fate bored
Nothing is as tedious as the limping days, When snowdrifts yearly cover all the ways, And ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom, Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom
shown thank
Thank you. You have shown me the way back to myself.
listen night soft
Listen, my darling, listen to soft night approaching.
happiness delight multitudes
A multitude of small delights constitute happiness
allegory
Everything for me becomes allegory
charming
Here is the charming evening, the criminal's friend. It comes like an accomplice, with stealthy tread.
below dost outcasts paradise passion thou
To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show - that passion is the paradise below
dishonor fish swimming
I am swimming in dishonor like a fish in water.
satan towards
There are in every man, at every hour, two simultaneous postulations, one towards God, the other towards Satan
art aspiration available expressed means modern towards word
To say the word Romanticism is to say modern art -- that is, intimacy, spirituality, color, aspiration towards the infinite, expressed by every means available to the arts.
result
All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.
art evil good product
Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art