Analysis of Spleen (II)
Charles Baudelaire 1821 (Paris) – 1867 (Paris)
J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.
Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau,
Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.
— Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,
Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers
Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.
Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,
Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,
Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher
Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.
Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,
Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années
L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité,
Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.
— Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante!
Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante,
Assoupi dans le fond d'un Sahara brumeux;
Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux,
Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche
Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche.
I have more memories than if I'd lived a thousand years.
A heavy chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets,
Processes, love-letters, verses, ballads,
And heavy locks of hair enveloped in receipts,
Hides fewer secrets than my gloomy brain.
It is a pyramid, a vast burial vault
Which contains more corpses than potter's field.
— I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon,
In which long worms crawl like remorse
And constantly harass my dearest dead.
I am an old boudoir full of withered roses,
Where lies a whole litter of old-fashioned dresses,
Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Bouchers,
Alone, breathe in the fragrance from an opened phial.
Nothing is so long as those limping days,
When under the heavy flakes of snowy years
Ennui, the fruit of dismal apathy,
Becomes as large as immortality.
— Henceforth you are no more, O living matter!
Than a block of granite surrounded by vague terrors,
Dozing in the depths of a hazy Sahara
An old sphinx ignored by a heedless world,
Omitted from the map, whose savage nature
Sings only in the rays of a setting sun.
— Translated by William Aggeler
I have more memories than had I seen
Ten centuries. A huge chest that has been
Stuffed full of writs, bills, verses, balance-sheets
With golden curls wrapt up in old receipts
And love-letters — hides less than my sad brain,
A pyramid, a vault that must contain
More corpses than the public charnel stores.
I am a cemetery the moon abhors,
Where, like remorses, the long worms that trail
Always the dearest of my dead assail.
I am a boudoir full of faded roses
Where many an old outmoded dress reposes
And faded pastels and pale Bouchers only
Breathe a scent-flask, long-opened and left lonely...
Nothing can match those limping days for length
Where under snows of years, grown vast in strength,
Boredom (of listlessness the pale abortion)
Of immortality takes the proportion!
— From henceforth, living matter, you are nought
But stone surrounded by a dreadful thought:
Lost in some dim Sahara, an old Sphinx,
Of whom the world we live in never thinks.
Lost on the map, it is its surly way
Only to sing in sunset's fading ray.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Were I ten centuries old, could I remember more?
A weighty chest of drawers, crammed with a random store
Of poems, billets-doux, writs, songs, balance sheets,
And heavy skeins of hair rolled up in old receipts,
Hides fewer secrets, surely, than my sorry brain,
A pyramid and vault, whose corridors contain
More corpses than the potter's field, or late or soon.
A graveyard, I, abominated by the moon,
Where, like a viscous worm, remorse thrusts out his head
To strike forever at my most beloved dead.
I am an ancient boudoir filled with faded roses
In which a ruck of long-outmoded gowns reposes,
Where pastels all too sad and Bouchers all too pale
Alone breathe in the scents that uncorked flasks exhale.
Nothing can be so long as days, limping and drear,
Under the heavy flakes of year on snowy year,
When ennui, fruit
Scheme | A AAABBCCAAAADE AAFFFFAAEE A AAAGFFCAFAAAH AAXFIADFIJ D XXAAGGA AHHAAHH KKJJFFAALL H M MAAGGCCFFAAHH DXF |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11110111111 1111111 1111011111010 111111111 111101111 1111011 1111111110 111111111 1111111111 111111111 11111111011 1111111111 11011111110 11111111 111111111 111111111 101011111 1101011 111111111 1111111 1101110101 1111111 11111111 11111101111 11110011110101 010111101101 1001101010 010111010001 1101011101 110100011001 1011101101 11010001101 01111101 0100011101 11111111010 110110111010 1010010011 011001011101 1011111101 11001011101 01001110100 011110100 11111111010 1011100101110 100011010010 111011011 01010111010 11000110101 0101101 1111001111 1100011111 1111110101 1101110101 0110111111 0100011101 110101011 1101000101 11101111 101011101 1101111010 110111011 0100101110 10111100110 1011110111 1101111101 101101010 1010010010 1111010111 1101010101 1011010111 1101110101 1101111101 101101101 0101110 0111001110101 010111110101 11010111101 010111110101 110101011101 010001110001 110101011111 0111101 110101011111 11010111011 111101111010 0101111011 10111101111 011001101101 101111111001 100101111101 10101 |
Closest metre | Iambic hexameter |
Characters | 4,347 |
Words | 716 |
Sentences | 28 |
Stanzas | 14 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 13, 10, 1, 13, 10, 1, 7, 7, 10, 1, 1, 13, 3 |
Lines Amount | 91 |
Letters per line (avg) | 35 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 229 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 51 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 03, 2023
- 3:40 min read
- 420 Views
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"Spleen (II)" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/5005/spleen-%28ii%29>.
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