The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Spleen and Ideal

Bénédiction

Benediction

76 lines · 26 notes

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    When, by a decree of the supreme powers,

    Lorsquewhenlorsque · subordinating conjunctionintroduces the clause of apparaît (next line)
    parbypar · prepositionpreposition marking décret
    unaun · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of décret
    décretdecreedécret · noun, masculine, singularoblique argument of apparaît (next line)
    desof thede · prepositionpreposition marking puissances
    puissancespowerspuissance · noun, feminine, pluralmodifies décret
    suprêmessupremesuprême · adjective, pluralmodifies puissances
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    The Poet appears in this bored world,

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    His mother, terrified and full of blasphemies,

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    Clenches her fists toward God, who takes pity on her:

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    — "Ah! why did I not spawn a whole knot of vipers,

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    Rather than nourish this object of derision!

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    Cursed be the night of fleeting pleasures

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    When my womb conceived my expiation!

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    Since you have chosen me from among all women

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    To be the disgust of my sorrowful husband,

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    And since I cannot cast back into the flames,

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    Like a love-note, this stunted monster,

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    I will make your hatred that crushes me rebound

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    Upon the accursed instrument of your cruelties,

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    And I will twist this wretched tree so well,

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    That it will never sprout its pestilent buds!"

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    So she swallows back the foam of her hatred,

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    And, not understanding the eternal designs,

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    She herself prepares, in the depths of Gehenna,

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    The pyres consecrated to a mother's crimes.

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    Yet, under the invisible guardianship of an Angel,

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    The disinherited Child grows drunk on sunlight

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    And in all that he drinks and in all that he eats

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    He finds again ambrosia and the crimson nectar.

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    He plays with the wind, chats with the cloud,

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    And, singing, grows drunk on the way of the cross;

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    And the Spirit that follows him on his pilgrimage

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    Weeps to see him merry as a bird of the woods.

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    All those he would love watch him with dread,

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    Or else, emboldened by his calm,

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    Vie to see who can wring a complaint from him,

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    And test their ferocity upon him.

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    Into the bread and wine meant for his mouth

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    They mix ash with foul spittle;

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    Hypocritically they throw away whatever he touches,

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    And accuse themselves of having stepped in his footprints.

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    His wife goes crying through the public squares:

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    "Since he finds me fair enough to adore me,

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    I will ply the trade of the ancient idols,

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    And like them I want to have myself regilded;

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    And I will glut myself on spikenard, incense, myrrh,

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    On genuflections, on meats and wines,

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    To learn whether, in a heart that admires me, I can

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    Usurp, laughing, the homage owed to gods!

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    And, when I grow weary of these impious farces,

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    I will lay upon him my frail and forceful hand;

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    And my nails, like the talons of the harpies,

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    Will know how to carve their way clear to his heart.

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    Like a fledgling bird that trembles and throbs,

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    I will tear that heart, all red, from his breast,

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    And, to sate my favorite beast,

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    I will fling it to the ground before it with disdain!"

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    Toward Heaven, where his eye beholds a splendid throne,

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    The serene Poet lifts his pious arms

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    And the vast lightning-flashes of his lucid mind

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    Hide from him the sight of the raging peoples:

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    — "Be blessed, my God, who give suffering

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    As a divine remedy for our impurities

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    And as the finest and purest essence

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    That readies the strong for holy raptures!

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    I know that you keep a place for the Poet

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    Among the blessed ranks of the holy Legions,

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    And that you summon him to the eternal feast

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    Of the Thrones, the Virtues, the Dominions.

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    I know that suffering is the one nobility

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    On which earth and the hells will never bite,

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    And that, to weave my mystic crown, one must

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    Levy every age and every universe.

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    But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra,

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    The unknown metals, the pearls of the sea,

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    Set by your own hand, could not suffice

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    For this fair diadem, dazzling and clear;

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    For it will be made of nothing but pure light,

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    Drawn from the holy hearth of the first rays,

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    And of which mortal eyes, in their fullest splendor,

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    Are but dimmed and plaintive mirrors!"

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Spleen and Ideal.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
Every word of the text, by letter.
Data
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Two whoopie pies and a pine. An inside joke.