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French · Flowers of Evil

Femmes damnées (Comme un bétail pensif)

Damned Women (Like a Pensive Herd)

28 lines · 15 notes

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    Like a pensive herd lying upon the sand,

    Commelikecomme · prepositionpreposition marking bétail
    unaun · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of bétail
    bétailherdbétail · noun, masculine, singularobject of Comme
    pensifpensivepensif · adjective, masculine, singularmodifies bétail
    suruponsur · prepositionpreposition marking sable
    lethele · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of sable
    sablesandsable · noun, masculine, singularobject of sur, locative complement of couchées
    couchéeslyingcoucher · verb, past, participle, feminine, pluralparticiple describing the subject (Elles, next line)
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    They turn their eyes toward the horizon of the seas,

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    And their feet seeking each other and their hands drawn close

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    Have soft languors and bitter shudders.

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    Some, hearts enamored of long confidences,

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    In the depths of the groves where the brooks chatter,

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    Go spelling out the love of timid childhoods

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    And carve into the green wood of young saplings;

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    Others, like sisters, walk slow and grave

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    Across the rocks full of apparitions,

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    Where Saint Anthony saw rise up like lava

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    The bare, crimsoned breasts of his temptations;

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    There are some, by the glow of crumbling resin-torches,

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    Who in the mute hollow of old pagan caverns

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    Call on you to the rescue of their howling fevers,

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    O Bacchus, luller of ancient remorse!

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    And others, whose breast loves the scapulars,

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    Who, hiding a whip beneath their long garments,

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    Mingle, in the dark wood and the solitary nights,

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    The foam of pleasure with the tears of torments.

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    O virgins, O demons, O monsters, O martyrs,

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    Great spirits scornful of reality,

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    Seekers of the infinite, devout women and satyrs,

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    Now full of cries, now full of tears,

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    You whom my soul has pursued into your hell,

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    Poor sisters, I love you as much as I pity you,

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    For your dreary sorrows, your unslaked thirsts,

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    And the urns of love with which your great hearts are full.

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Flowers of Evil.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
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