The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Spleen and Ideal

Confession

Confession

40 lines · 18 notes

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  1. 1

    Once, only once, sweet and gentle woman,

    Uneoneun · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of fois
    foistimefois · noun, femininehead of the phrase
    uneaun · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of seule
    seuleonlyseul · adjective, feminine, singularmodifies fois
    aimableamiableaimable · adjective, singularmodifies femme
    etandet · conjunctionlinks the coordination
    doucegentledoux · adjective, feminine, singularcoordinated with aimable, modifies femme
    femmewomanfemme · noun, feminine, singularsubject of appuya (confession-s1-l3)
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    your smooth arm upon my arm

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    leaned (on the shadowy depths of my soul

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    this memory has not in the least grown pale);

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    It was late; like a new-struck medal

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    the full moon spread itself wide,

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    and the solemnity of the night, like a river,

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    streamed over sleeping Paris.

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    And along the houses, under the carriage gateways,

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    cats were passing furtively,

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    ears pricked, or else, like dear shadows,

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    accompanied us slowly.

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    All at once, in the midst of the free intimacy

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    blossomed in the pale light,

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    from you, rich and sonorous instrument in which vibrates

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    nothing but radiant gaiety,

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    from you, bright and joyous as a fanfare

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    in the glittering morning,

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    a plaintive note, a strange note

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    escaped, all the while faltering

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    Like a sickly child, hideous, dark, unclean,

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    of whom her family would be ashamed,

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    and whom, to hide her from the world, she would long have

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    shut away in secret in a vault.

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    Poor angel, it was singing, your shrill note:

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    "That nothing here below is certain,

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    and that always, with whatever care it paints itself,

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    human selfishness betrays itself;

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    that it is a hard trade to be a beautiful woman,

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    and that it is the routine drudgery

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    of the mad cold dancer who swoons

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    behind her mechanical smile;

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    that to build upon hearts is a foolish thing;

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    that everything cracks, love and beauty alike,

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    until Oblivion throws them into its basket

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    to render them back to Eternity!"

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    I have often called back that enchanted moon,

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    that silence and that languor,

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    and that dreadful confidence whispered

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    in the confessional of the heart.

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.