The moon tonight dreams vacantly, as if She were a beauty cushioned at her rest Who strokes with wandering hand her lifting Nipples, and the contour of her breasts; ...
That kind heart you were jealous of, my nurse Who sleeps her sleep beneath the humble turf, I'd like to give her flowers, wouldn't you? The dead, the poor dead, have their sorrows too,...
Often, to amuse themselves, the crew of the ship Would fell an albatross, the largest of sea birds, Indolent companions of their trip As they slide across the deep sea's bitters. ...
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed Murals displaying Truth the saint, Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails Brought to an austere chill a warming paint. ...
Other of memories, mistress of mistresses, O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire, Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses, The charm of evenings by the gentle fire,...
Ubens, oblivious garden of indolence, Pillow of cool flesh where no man dreams of love, Where life flows forth in troubled opulence, As airs in heaven and seas in ocean move. ...
Consider them, my soul, they are a fright! Like mannequins, vaguely ridiculous, Peculiar, terrible somnambulists, Beaming - who can say where - their eyes of night. ...
Hate is the cask of the Dana'des; Vengeance, distraught, has red and brawny arms, With which she hurls into her empty dark Buckets of blood and tears from dead men's eyes. ...
Come, my fine cat, to my amorous heart; Please let your claws be concealed. And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes, Coalescence of agate and steel.
When my leisurely fingers are stroking your head...
The Clock! a sinister, impassive god Whose threatening finger says to us: 'Remember! Soon in your anguished heart, as in a target, Quivering shafts of Grief will plant themselves; ...
How penetrating is the end of an autumn day! Ah, yes, penetrating enough to be painful even; for there are certain delicious sensations whose vagueness does not prevent them from being intense; and none more keen than the perce...
How bittersweet it is on winter nights To hear old recollections raise themselves Around the flickering fire's wisps of light And through the mist, in voices of the bells. ...
Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves, Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves With all the careless and high-stepping grace, And the extravagant courtesan's thin face. ...
How many times must I jingle my little bells And kiss your ugly forehead, shabby substitute? How many, 0 my quiver, spears and bolts to lose Trying to hit the target, nature's mystic self? ...
We will have beds imbued with mildest scent, And couches, deep as tombs, in which to lie, Flowers around us, strange and opulent, Blooming on shelves under the finest skies. ...
It is death that consoles and allows us to live. Alas! that life's end should be all of our hope; It goes to our heads like a powerful drink, And gives us the heart to walk into the dark; ...