“Dreams, always dreams! and the more ambitious and delicate is the soul, the more its dreams bear it away from possibility. Each man carries in himself his dose of natural opium, incessantly secreted and renewed. From birth to death, how many hours can we count that are filled by positive enjoyment, by successful and decisive action? Shall we ever live, shall we ever pass into this picture which my soul has painted, this picture which resembles you? These treasures, this furniture, this luxury, this order, these perfumes, these miraculous flowers, they are you. Still you, these mighty rivers and these calm canals! These enormous ships that ride upon them, freighted with wealth, whence rise the monotonous songs of their handling: these are my thoughts that sleep or that roll upon your breast. You lead them softly towards that sea which is the Infinite; ever reflecting the depths of heaven in the limpidity of your fair soul; and when, tired by the ocean's swell and gorged with the treasures of the East, they return to their port of departure, these are still my thoughts enriched which return from the Infinite - towards you.” RomanticismTranslationWorld LiteratureFrench PoetryAleister Crowley19th Century PoetryCharles BaudelairePoetry In Translation Author:Charles Baudelaire, Aleister Crowley
“And now (admiring that proſpect) To Rome this ſpeech he did direct. O ſeate of Gods! could this men ſo Forſake thee, ere they ſaw a foe? If thou canſt not, what Citty can Deſerue to be fought for by man? Well haue the higher powers repreſt, The humors of the armed Eaſt, From ioyning with the Hungars ſtout And all that fierce outragious rout Of Dakes, of Getes, and Sarmatans, From bringing downe their bloudy bands To thee (poore Rome) by Fortune ſpar'd Whom fearefull Pompey durſt not gaurd. So weakely mand, more bleſt art farre With ciuill then with Forraigne warre. Thus ſaid, forthwith he did inveſt The Citty, then with feares poſſeſt: For ſure they thought, that (in his ire) All should haue beene conſum'd with fire, And Temples ſhould to ruine runne, As ſoone as hee the walles had wonne. Such was the meaſure of their fright, His will they conſtru'd by his might. And in ſuch ſudden mazements weare, That they their ſacred rites forbeare. The common ſort to ſportings bent, Their merry tunes turn'd to lament: No ſpleen they had, their ſprights were ſpent The Roman Fathers reuerend troope In Phabus Pallace fitting, droope: Not thither called at an houre, By order of the Senates powre. No Conſuls with their preſence grace Their ſacred ſeates in ſupreme place. Nor next to them the lawes to ſway The Prator ſate in his array. No Coches at the Senate gate, That thither bring the Peeres of ſtate. Caſar alone was all in all, His priuate voyce the Court doth thrall. The Fathers to his heſts giue way, Rady his pleasure to obay. Whether he Monarchy deſire, Or would to ſacred rites aſpire: Or liues of Senators would waſt, Or them into exile would caſt. But he (more modeſt and more milde) Did blush his power ſhould be defil'd More to command (with threatning feare) Then well the Roman ſtate could beare.” Epic PoetryPoetry In TranslationLucan Pharsalia Civil War Book:Civil War Source: Civil War