sonnet of autumn: bright sun fallen low; iphone photo manipulated in photoshop Print

sonnet of autumn: bright sun fallen low; iphone photo manipulated in photoshop Sonnet of Autumn Charles Baudelaire 1845 HEY say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: ‘Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?’ Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine; And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know: Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite. Charles Baudelaire 1868 Song of Autumn I Soon into frozen shades, like leaves, we'll tumble. Adieu, short summer's blaze, that shone to mock. I hear already the funereal rumble Of logs, as on the paving-stones they shock. Winter will enter in my soul to dwell — Rage, hate, fear, horror, labour forced and dire! My heart will seem, to sun that polar hell, A dim, red, frozen block, devoid of fire. Shuddering I hear the heavy thud of fuel. The building of a gallows sounds as good! My spirit, like a tower, reels to the cruel Battering-ram in every crash of wood. The ceaseless echoes rock me and appal. They're nailing up a coffin, I'll be bound, For whom? — Last night was Summer. Here's the Fall. There booms a farewell volley in the sound. II I like die greenish light in your long eyes, Dear: but today all things are sour to me. And naught, your hearth, your boudoir, nor your sighs Are worth the sun that glitters on the sea. Yet love me, tender heart, as mothers cherish A thankless wretch, Lover or sister, be Ephemeral sweetness of the suns that perish Or glory of the autumn swift to flee. Brief task! The charnel yawns in hunger horrid, Yet let me with my head upon your knees, Although I mourn the summer, white and torrid Taste these last yellow rays before they freeze. — Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

Print:Giclee on Photo Paper

Size:12 W x 8 H x 0.1 D in

Size with Frame:17.25 W x 13.25 H x 1.2 D in

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