switchercat.livejournal.com (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
switchercat.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
greatpoetry2013-03-06 04:02 pm
switchercat.livejournal.com) wrote in greatpoetry2013-03-06 04:02 pm
Entry tags:
"The Soup and the Clouds," Charles Baudelaire
trans. Michael Hamburger, I think.
My little mad darling was giving me my dinner, and through the open window of the dining room I was contemplating the moving architectures that God makes of vapours, those marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, in the midst of my meditation: "All those phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beloved, that monstrous little mad woman with the green eyes."
And suddenly I received a violent blow on my back, and I heard a charming, raucous voice, a voice hysterical and, as it were, made hoarse by brandy, the voice of my sweet little darling who was saying: "Well, are you never going to eat your soup, you b . . . blackguard of a cloud-monger?"
My little mad darling was giving me my dinner, and through the open window of the dining room I was contemplating the moving architectures that God makes of vapours, those marvellous constructions of the impalpable. And I said to myself, in the midst of my meditation: "All those phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beloved, that monstrous little mad woman with the green eyes."
And suddenly I received a violent blow on my back, and I heard a charming, raucous voice, a voice hysterical and, as it were, made hoarse by brandy, the voice of my sweet little darling who was saying: "Well, are you never going to eat your soup, you b . . . blackguard of a cloud-monger?"