Moesta Et Errabunda
"The Sorrowful, Wandering Woman."
by Charles Baudelaire
Tell me, Agatha, does your heart, at times, fly away,
Far from the black ocean of the sordid city,
Toward another ocean where splendor breaks forth,
As blue, clear, and deep as virginity?
Tell me, Agatha, does your heart at times fly away?
The sea, the mighty sea, consoles our labor!
What demon endowed the sea, the raucous singer
Whom the huge organ of howling winds accompanies,
With this sublime function of nurse?
The sea, the mighty sea, consoles our labor!
Take me away, O train! carry me off, O ship!
Far! far! Here the mud is made from our tears!
-- Is it true that at times the sad heart of Agatha
Says: Far from remorse, and crimes, and grief,
Take me away, O train, carry me off, O ship?
How far away you are, perfumed paradise,
Where under a clear blue all is love and joy,
Where all that one loves is worthy of being loved,
Where in pure sensation the heart is drowned!
How far away you are, perfumed paradise!
But the green paradise of childish loves,
Races, songs, kisses, bouquets,
Violins vibrating behind the hills,
With jars of wine, at evening, in the groves
-- But the green paradise of childish loves,
That innocent paradise, full of furtive joys,
Is it already farther away than India and China?
Can we remember with plaintive cries,
And still animate with a silver voice,
That innocent paradise full of furtive joys?