Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)

Translated by Arthur Reed Ropes

BE still, my sorrow, and be strong to bear;

The evening thou didst pray for, now comes down,

A veil of dusky air enfolds the town,

Bringing soft peace to some, to others care.

Now, while the wretched throngs of soulless clay,

Beneath the pitiless sting of pleasure’s whip

Gather remorse in slavish fellowship,

Sorrow, give me thy hand, and come away,

Far from their noise. See the sad years deceased

Lean from the sky in garb of bygone times,

Regret that smiles up from the river’s deep,

The sun that sinks beneath the bridge to sleep,

And hear the footsteps of the Night that climbs

Like a long shroud, trailing across the East.