CONTEMPLATION

HOU, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still,

The eve is thine which even now drops down,

To carry peace or care to human will,

And in a misty veil enfolds the town.

 

While the vile mortals of the multitude,

By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on,

Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood--

Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone

 

Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years,

In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim;

And from the water, smiling through her tears,

 

Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim;

And in the east, her long shroud trailing light,

List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night. 

by: Charles Baudelaire