The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Spleen and Ideal

Les Phares

The Beacons

44 lines · 21 notes

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    Rubens, river of oblivion, garden of idleness,

    RubensRubensRubens · proper noun, masculine, singularhead of the phrase
    fleuveriverfleuve · noun, masculine, singularin apposition to Rubens
    d'ofde · prepositionpreposition marking oubli
    oublioblivionoubli · noun, masculine, singularmodifies fleuve
    jardingardenjardin · noun, masculine, singularin apposition to Rubens
    deofde · prepositionpreposition marking paresse
    lathele · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of paresse
    paresseidlenessparesse · noun, feminine, singularmodifies jardin
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    Pillow of cool flesh where one cannot love,

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    But where life floods in and stirs without cease,

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    Like the air within the sky and the sea within the sea;

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    Leonardo da Vinci, deep and somber mirror,

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    Where charming angels, with a sweet smile

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    All laden with mystery, appear in the shadow

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    Of the glaciers and pines that close off their land;

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    Rembrandt, sad hospital all filled with murmurs,

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    And adorned only with a great crucifix,

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    Where the tearful prayer breathes up out of the filth,

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    And pierced abruptly by a ray of winter light;

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    Michelangelo, dim region where one sees Herculeses

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    Mingle with Christs, and rise bolt upright

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    Mighty phantoms who in the gathering dusk

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    Tear their shroud as they stretch out their fingers;

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    Boxer's rages, fauns' insolences,

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    You who knew how to gather up the beauty of louts,

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    Great heart swollen with pride, frail and sallow man,

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    Puget, melancholy emperor of the galley-slaves;

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    Watteau, that carnival where many an illustrious heart,

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    Like butterflies, drift about, ablaze,

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    Fresh and airy stage-sets lit by chandeliers

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    That pour out madness over this whirling ball;

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    Goya, nightmare full of unknown things,

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    Of fetuses cooked in the midst of witches' sabbaths,

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    Of old women at the mirror and of children all naked,

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    Who, to tempt the demons, smooth their stockings tight;

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    Delacroix, lake of blood haunted by evil angels,

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    Shadowed by an evergreen wood of firs,

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    Where, beneath a doleful sky, strange fanfares

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    Pass by, like a stifled sigh of Weber;

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    These curses, these blasphemies, these laments,

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    These ecstasies, these cries, these tears, these Te Deums,

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    Are an echo re-told through a thousand labyrinths;

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    It is for mortal hearts a divine opium!

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    It is a cry repeated by a thousand sentinels,

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    An order relayed by a thousand megaphones;

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    It is a beacon lit upon a thousand citadels,

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    A call of hunters lost in the great woods!

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    For it is truly, Lord, the finest testimony

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    That we could give of our dignity

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    Than this burning sob that rolls from age to age

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    And comes to die at the edge of your eternity!

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.
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Two whoopie pies and a pine. An inside joke.