Charles Baudelaire

The Pipe

I am the pipe of an author; One sees by my color, Abyssinian or Kaffir, That my master's a great smoker. When he is laden with sorrow, I smoke like a cottage Where they are preparing dinner For the return of the ploughman. I clasp and lull his soul In the wavy blue web That rises from my fiery mouth. I give forth clouds of dittany That warm his heart and cure His mind of its fatigue. Translated by - William Aggeler The Pipe I am an author's pipe; From examining my Abyssinian Or Kaffir countenance, one sees That my master is a great smoker. When he is laden with sorrow, I smoke like a cottage When the cooking is being prepared Against the laborer's return I entwine and I cradle his soul In the drifting, blue film That climbs from my fiery mouth, And I turn a powerful balm Which charms his heart and heals His spirit of fatigues. Translated by - Geoffrey Wagner The Pipe An author's favourite pipe am I, My Kaffir woman's countenance Tells the beholder at a glance My master smokes incessantly. If he is mournful or in pain I smoke as does the ploughman's cot When the good wife prepares the pot Before her spouse comes home again. I bind his soul and rock her well In the blue twisting skein which slips And rises from my fiery lips, And weave a very potent spell Which soothes his heart in its distress And heals his spirit's weariness. Translated by - Jack Collings Squire The Author's Pipe I am an author's pipe. To see me And my outlandish shape to heed, You'd know my master was a dreamy Inveterate smoker of the weed. When be is loaded down with care, I like a stove will smoke and burn Wherein the supper they prepare Against the labourer's return. I nurse his spirit with my charm Swaying it in a soft, uncertain, And vaguely-moving azure curtain. I roll a potent cloud of balm To lull his spirit into rest And cure the sorrows in his breast. Translated by - Roy Campbell

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