Spleen

    Translated by Richard Howard

    （I）

    February， peeved at Paris， pours a gloomy torrent on the pale lessees of the graveyard next door and a mortal chill on tenants of the foggy suburbs too.

    The tiles afford no comfort to my cat that cannot keep its mangy body still；

    the soul of some old poet haunts the drains and howls as if a ghost could hate the cold.

    A churchbell grieves， a log in the fireplace smokes and hums falsetto to the clock's catarrh，while in a filthy reeking deck of cards

    inherited from a dropsical old maid，the dapper Knave of Hearts and the Queen of Spades grimly disinter their love affairs.

    （II）

    Souvenirs？

    More than if I had lived a thousand years！

    No chest of drawers crammed with documents，

    love-letters， wedding-invitations， wills，

    a lock of someone's hair rolled up in a deed，

    hides so many secrets as my brain.

    This branching catacombs， this pyramid

    contains more corpses than the potter's field：

    I am a graveyard that the moon abhors，

    where long worms like regrets come out to feed

    most ravenously on my dearest dead.

    I am an old boudoir where a rack of gowns，

    perfumed by withered roses， rots to dust；

    where only faint pastels and pale Bouchers

    inhale the scent of long-unstoppered flasks.

    Nothing is slower than the limping days

    when under the heavy weather of the years

    Boredom， the fruit of glum indifference，

    gains the dimension of eternity . . .

    Hereafter， mortal clay， you are no more

    than a rock encircled by a nameless dread，

    an ancient sphinx omitted from the map，

    forgotten by the world， and whose fierce moods

    sing only to the rays of setting suns.

    （III）

    I'm like the king of a rainy country， rich

    but helpless， decrepit though still a young man

    who scorns his fawning tutors， wastes his time

    on dogs and other animals， and has no fun；

    nothing distracts him， neither hawk nor hound

    nor subjects starving at the palace gate.

    His favorite fool's obscenities fall flat

    ——the royal invalid is not amused——

    and ladies in waiting for a princely nod

    no longer dress indecently enough

    to win a smile from this young skeleton.

    The bed of state becomes a stately tomb.

    The alchemist who brews him gold has failed

    to purge the impure substance from his soul，

    and baths of blood， Rome's legacy recalled

    by certain barons in their failing days，

    are useless to revive this sickly flesh

    through which no blood but brackish Lethe seeps.

    （IV）

    When skies are low and heavy as a lid

    over the mind tormented by disgust，

    and hidden in the gloom the sun pours down

    on us a daylight dingier than the dark；

    when earth becomes a trickling dungeon where

    Trust like a bat keeps lunging through the air，

    beating tentative wings along the walls

    and bumping its head against the rotten beams；

    when rain falls straight from unrelenting clouds，

    forging the bars of some enormous jail，

    and silent hordes of obscene spiders spin

    their webs across the basements of our brains；

    then all at once the raging bells break loose，

    hurling to heaven their awful caterwaul，

    like homeless ghosts with no one left to haunt

    whimpering their endless grievances.

    ——And giant hearses， without dirge or drums，

    parade at half-step in my soul， where Hope，

    defeated， weeps， and the oppressor Dread

    plants his black flag on my assenting skull.