La Mort D Un Fils Poeme

Dans une terre grasse et saturé d"escargotsJe veux creuse moi-même une fosse profonde,Où je puisse à loisir étaler mien vieux osEt dormir dans l"oubli prendre plaisir un harower dans l"onde.

Vous lisez ce: La mort d un fils poeme

Je hais les testaments et je hais das tombeaux;Plutôt plus d"implorer d’un larme du monde,Vivant, j"aimerais meilleur inviter das corbeauxÀ saigner alger les bouts du ma carcasse immonde.

Ô vers! noirs compagnons sans l’oreille et sans yeux,Voyez arrivée à vous un mort habitant et joyeux;Philosophes viveurs, arbore de la pourriture,

À travers mien ruine allez ainsi sans remords,Et dites-moi s"il est encor certains torturePour ce vieux physique sans ambus et mort parmi les morts!

— Charles Baudelaire

The Joyful Corpse

In a rich, heavy soil, infested through snails, i wish à dig mien own grave, wide and deep, Where ns can at recreation stretch out my old bones and sleep in oblivion choose a shark in auto wave.

I have a hatred parce que le testaments et for tombs; rather than implore a tear de the world, I"d sooner, while alive, invite the crows venir drain the du sang from ma filthy carcass.

O worms! le noir companions through neither eyes no one ears,See a dead man, joyous and free, approaching you;Wanton philosophers, children of putrescence,

Go through mien ruin then, there is no remorse, et tell me si there still remains any kind of torture for this old soulless body, dead among thé dead!

— william Aggeler, the Flowers du Evil (Fresno, CA: académie Library Guild, 1954)

The Joyous Dead

In a fat, greasy soil, that"s full de snails, I"ll dig a sérieuse deep down, where i may sleep Spreading mien bones at ease, venir drowse in deep Oblivion, oui a shark within auto wave.

I hate all tombs, and testaments, and wills: i want no human tears; I"d like ce more, that ravens might attack me with your bills, venir broach ma carcase du its living gore.

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O worms! le noir friends, that cannot hear or see,A free and joyous corpse behold in me!You philosophic souls, corruption-bred,

Plough through ma ruins! eat your merry way! et if there room yet more torments, say, pour this old soulless corpse among auto dead.

— roy Campbell, Poems de Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

The Happy Dead Man

Slowly, luxuriously, i will hollow a deep grave, With my own hands, in rich couleur noire snail-frequented soil, et lay moi down, forspent v that voluptuous toil, and go venir sleep, oui happy oui a shark in thé wave.

No funeral parce que le me, ne sont pas sepulcher, non hymns; fairly than beg pour pity once alive, God knows, I oui lain sick et shelterless, et let auto crows Stab à their hearts" heureux at ma lean festering limbs.

O worms! ma small couleur noire comrades without ears jaune eyes,Taste now à la once a mortal who lies under in bliss.O blithe materialists! o vermin of mien last bed!

Come, march remorselessly with me. Come, et devise part curious new torment, si you can, pour this Old corps without soul et deader than thé dead.

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— George Dillon, Flowers du Evil (NY: Harper et Brothers, 1936)

Joyful Corpse

In a rich launech loam wherein snails recess,I wish à dig mien own deep roomy grave,There venir stretch out mien old bones, motionless,Snug in death"s sleep ont sharks are in auto wave.Men"s testaments and tombs order queasiness,The world"s laments are not a boon ns crave,Sooner, when yet i live, let thé crows pressMy carrion blood from out my skull et nave.O worms, black comrades without eyes or ears,Behold, a dead man, glad et free, appears!Lecher philosophers, spawn ns decay,Rummage remorseless through my crumbling headTo parlez what torture pouvez remain todayFor this ma soulless corps which is dead.

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers ns Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: pet Pauper Press, 1958)

The Joyous Defunct

Where snails abound — in a juicy soil, I will certainly dig à la myself a fathomless grave, whereby at leisure exploiter ancient bones i can coil, et sleep — quite forgotten — like a shark "neath thé wave.

I se presser every tomb — i abominate wills, and rather 보다 tears from auto world à implore, ns would ask de the crows through their vampire bills to devour every peu of mien carcass impure.

Oh worms, there is no eyes, without ears, black friends! à you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends, Enlivened thinkers — offspring de Dung!

Without any kind of qualms, o"er mien wreckage spread, et tell if some torment there calmer can be wrung parce que le this soul-less old structure that is dead "midst thé dead!

— kyril Scott, Baudelaire: thé Flowers of Evil (London: Elkin Mathews, 1909)

The Joyous Corse

In a floor full du snails et free from stones ns fain would dig myself a pit full deep, Where ns might place at ease my aged bones And, choose a wave-borne shark, forgetful sleep.

For testaments ns hate, et tombs je hate; rather than crave a tear from human being eyes ns would inviter the crows your hunger sate Upon mien corpse"s foul extremities.

O worms! de plus black, deaf, sightless company! there comes venir you a dead homme glad et free. De plus philosophic sons ns rottenness, Across ma ruin crainder without remorse, et tell si any damgussese may yet oppress This old and soulless death-surrounded corse.

— femme Collings Squire, Poems et Baudelaire flower (London: thé New age Press, Ltd, 1909)