The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Parisian Scenes

Danse macabre

Dance of Death

61 lines · 21 notes

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    To Ernest Christophe

    ÀToà · prepositionpreposition marking Ernest
    ErnestErnestErnest · proper noun, masculine, singularhead of the phrase
    ChristopheChristopheChristophe · proper noun, masculine, singulardepends on Ernest
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    Proud, as much as any living thing, of her noble stature,

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    with her big bouquet, her handkerchief and her gloves,

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    she has the nonchalance and the easy carelessness

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    of a thin coquette with extravagant airs.

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    Did one ever see at a ball a slimmer waist?

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    Her exaggerated gown, in its royal fullness,

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    tumbles down lavishly over a dry foot pinched

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    by a bedizened shoe, pretty as a flower.

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    The ruffle that plays at the edge of the collarbones,

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    like a lascivious stream that rubs itself against the rock,

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    modestly shields from ridiculous jeers

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    the funereal charms she is keen to conceal.

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    Her deep eyes are made of void and of darkness,

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    and her skull, artfully coiffed with flowers,

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    sways softly upon her frail vertebrae.

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    O charm of a nothingness madly decked out.

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    Some will call you a caricature,

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    who do not understand — lovers drunk on flesh —

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    the nameless elegance of the human framework.

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    You answer, great skeleton, to my dearest taste!

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    Do you come to disturb, with your powerful grimace,

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    the feast of Life? or does some old desire,

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    still spurring on your living carcass,

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    drive you, credulous one, to the sabbath of Pleasure?

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    By the song of the violins, by the flames of the candles,

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    do you hope to drive off your mocking nightmare,

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    and do you come to ask of the torrent of orgies

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    to cool the hell kindled within your heart?

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    Inexhaustible well of folly and of sins!

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    Eternal alembic of the age-old sorrow!

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    Through the curved lattice of your ribs

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    I see, still wandering, the insatiable asp.

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    To tell the truth, I fear that your coquetry

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    may not find a reward worthy of its efforts.

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    Who, among these mortal hearts, grasps the mockery?

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    The charms of horror intoxicate only the strong!

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    The abyss of your eyes, full of horrible thoughts,

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    breathes out vertigo, and the prudent dancers

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    will not gaze, without bitter nausea,

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    upon the eternal smile of your thirty-two teeth.

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    And yet, who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,

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    and who has not fed on the things of the tomb?

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    What does the perfume, the dress, or the finery matter?

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    Who plays the squeamish shows that he thinks himself fair.

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    Noseless dancing-girl, irresistible drab,

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    Go on, say to these dancers who play the offended:

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    "Proud darlings, despite the art of powders and of rouge,

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    you all smell of death! O musk-scented skeletons,

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    Withered Antinoüses, dandies with hairless faces,

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    varnished corpses, hoary Lovelaces,

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    The universal reel of the dance of death

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    sweeps you off to places that are not known!

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    From the cold banks of the Seine to the burning shores of the Ganges,

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    the mortal herd leaps and swoons, without seeing,

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    in a hole in the ceiling the trumpet of the Angel

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    gaping ominously like a black blunderbuss.

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    In every climate, under every sun, Death admires you

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    in your contortions, laughable Humanity,

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    and often, like you, perfuming herself with myrrh,

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    mingles her irony with your madness!"

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Parisian Scenes.
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.