landscape

my eclogues I’d write chastely and thus

lie down next the sky like astrologers

neighbor of steeples to dream and hear

their solemn hymns borne off by the wind

my chin in my hands from my high mansard

I’d see the singing chatting workroom

pipes steeples the city masts

and the big skies you dream of eternity in

sweet it is in fog to see it born

a star in the blue a lamp in the window

rivers of coal rising to the heavens

and the moon pour out its pale enchantment

springs summers falls I’ll see

and winter when it comes with one-note snow

I’ll shut up all my doors and windows

to build my fairy palaces at night

then I’ll dream horizons of pale blue

gardens fountains weeping on alabaster

kisses birds singing night and day

everything that idyll has of childishness

disturbance storming vainly at my window

won’t raise my brow from off my desk

for I’ll be plunged in that delight

evoking spring with just my will

pulling a star of day from my heart and making

my hot thoughts into warm atmosphere

Charles Baudelaire