C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Meditation
By Charles Baudelaire (18211867)
B
For night thy thirst was—lo, it falleth down,
Slowly darkening it veils the town,
Bringing its peace to some, to some its ill.
Under the pitiless scourge, the lash of unclean desire,
Goes culling remorse with fingers that never tire:—
My sorrow,—thy hand! Come, sit thou by me here.
See! in their threadbare robes the dead years cast their eyes:
And from the depths below regret’s wan smiles appear.
Trailing its weltering pall far through the East aglow.
Hark, dear one, hark! Sweet night’s approach is near.