Charles Baudelaire

The Venal Muse

Muse of my heart, you who love palaces, When January frees his north winds, will you have, During the black ennui of snowy evenings, An ember to warm your two feet blue with cold? Will you bring the warmth back to your mottled shoulders, With the nocturnal beams that pass through the shutters? Knowing that your purse is as dry as your palate, Will you harvest the gold of the blue, vaulted sky? To earn your daily bread you are obliged To swing the censer like an altar boy, And to sing in which you don't believe, Or, hungry mountebank, to put up for sale your charm, Your laughter wet with tears which people do not see, To make the vulgar herd shake with laughter. Translated by - William Aggeler The Mercenary Muse O Muse of my heart, votary of palaces, Shall you, when January looses its boreal winds, Have any firebrand to warm your violet feet In the black boredoms of snowy evenings? Shall you revive your marble shoulders By the gleams of night that stab the shutters? And, feeling your purse as empty as your palace, Will you reap the gold of azure skies? To win your evening bread you need, Like a choir-boy, to play with the censer, To chant the Te Deums you scarcely believe in, Or, famished vagabond, expose your charms And your laughter soaked in crying that is not seen, In order to dispel the spleen of the people. Translated by - Geoffrey Wagner La Muse venale Ma muse a ma ane, lover a riches 'n luxury, When January unleashes icy blasts 'n snows, While the icy nights smother us wi broodin Where will ye find the embers tae warm ma purple toes? D'ye think the street lamps peepin through the windae blinds Will warm yer shivrin shoulders, or thase heedlamps a passin cars When yer belly's empty as yer pocket 'n yer gob's gone dry Will ye fill yer pockets wi the heavin's golden stars? Or will ye recite the hymns a the Bible-punching bunch Tae win yersel a free ticket fer their street buffet lunch? Knowin' a the while that ye'r sellin yer soul cheap. Or, like the trapeze artist will ye swing and leap Aboot, dain' yer acrobatics wi a painted smile Tae win their laughs an tips, greetin' inside a the while? Translated by - James W. Underhill La Muse venale o Muse I love, whom palaces delight, when 'round thy door the blasts of winter cry, wilt have, while snowy eves in boredom die, one ember left for feet all freezing white? wilt warm thy cold blue shoulders in the light the stars impart through shutters left awry? - or climb, with hungry mouth and purse, the sky to glean the gold from azure vaults of night? thou must, to earn thy daily bread, employ a well-swung censer, like a choir-boy, and chant from a heart unstirred, or, starving clown, lay bare thy loveliness and laugh through tears thou darest not confess, to rouse the bilious humour of the herd. Translated by - Lewis Piaget Shanks The Venal Muse Oh Muse of my heart - so fond of palaces old, Wilt have - when New-Year speeds its wintry blast, Amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast, A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold? Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep? And - void thy purse and void thy palace — reap A golden hoard within some azure hive? Thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night, Suspend the censer like an acolyte, Te-Deums sing, with sanctimonious ease, Or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene Essay to lull the vulgar rabble's spleen; Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees. Translated by - Cyril Scott The Venal Muse Muse of my heart You are a lover Of January storms and sleet. Gleaming starlight Does not whet Your dead palate and Only complaints spring From your mouth about Your purse stuffed with azure. You hate the Te Deums I force you to sing And starve Waiting to feed on the anger Of commuters stuck in Afternoon traffic. Translated by - Will Schmitz The Mercenary Muse Muse of my heart, so fond of palaces, reply: When January sends those blizzards wild and white, Shall you have any fire at all to huddle by, Chafing your violet feet in the black snowy night? Think: when the moon shines through the window, shall you try To thaw your marble shoulders in her square of light? Think: when your purse is empty and your palate dry, Can you from the starred heaven snatch all the gold in sight? No, no; if you would earn your bread, you have no choice But to become a choir-boy, and chant in a loud voice Te Deums you have no faith in, and swing your censer high; Or be a mountebank, employing all your art - Yes, on an empty stomach and with an anguished heart - To chase the boredom of the liverish gallery. Translated by - Edna St. Vincent Millay The Venal Muse Lover of palaces, Muse of my heart, O sweet, When hailstones fly from January's frosty sling, On snowy nights amid black ennui, who shall bring A cheery log to thaw your violet chill feet? Shall you warm your wan mottled shoulder with the wing Of bleak nocturnal beams that soar from the dank street? Knowing you have no coin in purse nor bread to eat, Shall you rake gold from blue arched skies for harvesting? To earn your daily bread as the dense nights grow denser, Shall you play acolyte and blithely swing your censer, Chanting faithless Te Deums; or a moment after, A famished mountebank, sell the charmed mysteries Of laughter bathed in tears that no man ever sees To rouse the rabble herd to fits of obscene laughter? Translated by - Jacques LeClercq The Venal Muse Muse of my heart, of palaces the lover, Where will you, when the blast of winter blows In the black boredom of snowed lights, discover A glowing brand to warm your violet toes? How will you there revive your marbled skin At the chill rays your shutters then disperse? The gold of azure heavens will you win When empty are your palate and your purse? You'll need each evening, then, to earn your bread, As choirboys swinging censers that are dead Who sing Te Deums which they disbelieve: Or, fasting pierrette, trade your loveliness And laughter, soaked in tears that none can guess, The boredom of the vulgar to relieve. Translated by - Roy Campbell The Venal Muse Muse of my heart, of palaces the lover, Where will you, when the blast of winter blows In the black boredom of snowed lights, discover A glowing brand to warm your violet toes? How will you there revive your marbled skin At the chill rays your shutters then disperse? The gold of azure heavens will you win When empty are your palate and your purse? You'll need each evening, then, to earn your bread, As choirboys swinging censers that are dead Who sing Te Deums which they disbelieve: Or, fasting pierrette, trade your loveliness And laughter, soaked in tears that none can guess, The boredom of the vulgar to relieve. Translated by - Roy Campbell

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