The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Parisian Scenes

Le Crépuscule du matin

Morning Twilight

28 lines · 17 notes

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  1. 1

    The reveille was singing in the barracks yards,

    Lathele · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of diane
    dianereveillediane · noun, feminine, singularsubject of chantait
    chantaitwas singingchanter · verb, imperfect, indicative, third-person, singularmain verb of the sentence
    dansindans · prepositionpreposition marking cours
    lesthele · determiner, pluraldeterminer of cours
    coursyardscours · noun, masculine, pluraldepends on chantait
    desof thede · prepositionpreposition marking casernes
    casernesbarrackscaserne · noun, feminine, pluralmodifies cours
  2. 2

    And the morning wind was blowing on the lanterns.

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    It was the hour when the swarm of evil dreams

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    Twists the brown-haired youths upon their pillows;

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    When, like a bloodshot eye that throbs and stirs,

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    The lamp makes a red stain upon the daylight;

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    When the soul, under the weight of the body, sullen and heavy,

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    Mimics the struggle of the lamp and the daylight.

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    Like a tear-streaked face that the breezes wipe dry,

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    The air is full of the shudder of things that flee away,

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    And man is weary of writing and woman of loving.

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    Here and there the houses were beginning to smoke.

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    The women of pleasure, their eyelids livid,

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    Mouths open, slept their stupefied sleep;

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    The poor women, dragging their thin cold breasts,

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    Blew on their embers and blew on their fingers.

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    It was the hour when, amid the cold and the stinting want,

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    The pains of women in labour grow worse;

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    Like a sob cut short by a froth of blood

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    The cock's crow in the distance tore the misty air;

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    A sea of fogs was bathing the buildings,

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    And the dying, deep in the poorhouses,

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    Were heaving their last death-rattle in uneven gasps.

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    The debauchees came home, broken by their labours.

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    Dawn, shivering in her gown of pink and green,

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    Was advancing slowly over the deserted Seine,

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    And gloomy Paris, rubbing its eyes,

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    Was grasping its tools, a toiling old man.

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
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