The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Wine

Le Vin des chiffonniers

The Ragpickers' Wine

32 lines · 24 notes

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  1. 1

    Often, by the red glow of a street-lamp

    Souventoftensouvent · adverbhead of the phrase
    àbyà · prepositionpreposition marking clarté
    lathele · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of clarté
    clartéglowclarté · noun, feminine, singularobject of preposition à
    rougeredrouge · adjective, feminine, singularmodifies clarté
    d'ofde · prepositionpreposition marking réverbère
    unaun · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of réverbère
    réverbèrestreet-lampréverbère · noun, masculine, singularobject of preposition d', modifies clarté
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    Whose flame the wind beats and whose glass it torments,

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    In the heart of an old faubourg, a miry labyrinth

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    Where humanity swarms in stormy ferments,

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    One sees a ragpicker who comes along, nodding his head,

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    Lurching, and knocking into the walls like a poet,

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    And, taking no care for the police spies, his subjects,

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    Pours out his whole heart in glorious projects.

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    He swears oaths, dictates sublime laws,

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    Lays the wicked low, raises up the victims,

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    And beneath the firmament, like a canopy hung above,

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    Grows drunk on the splendors of his own virtue.

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    Yes, these folk harried by household sorrows,

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    Ground down by labor and tormented by age,

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    Worn out and bending under a heap of refuse,

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    Confused vomit of the enormous city of Paris,

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    Return, perfumed with a smell of wine-casks,

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    Followed by companions, grown white in the battles,

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    Whose mustaches droop like old battle-flags.

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    The banners, the flowers, and the triumphal arches

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    Rise up before them — solemn magic!

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    And in the dizzying and luminous orgy

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    Of bugles, of sunlight, of shouts and of the drum,

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    They bring glory to a people drunk with love!

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    It is thus that, across frivolous Humanity,

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    The wine rolls gold, a dazzling Pactolus;

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    Through the throat of man it sings its exploits

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    And reigns by its gifts just as true kings do.

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    To drown the rancor and cradle the indolence

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    Of all these old, accursed men who die in silence,

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    God, touched by remorse, had made sleep;

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    Man added Wine, sacred son of the Sun!

The particulars

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