I see what I can, not what I will In things that move, things that are still, Thin motion, even cloudier rest, I see the symbols God hath drest The moveless trees, the trees that wave The clouds that heavenly highways have, Horses that run, rocks that are fixt, Streams that have rest and motion mixt, The main with its abiding flux, The wind that up my chimney sucks A mounting waterfall of flame, Sticks, straws, dust, beetles and that same Old blazing sun the Psalmist saw A testifier to the law. Divinely to the heart they speak Saying how they are but weak Wan will o' the wisps o'er the crystal sea; But stays that sea still dark to me. Did I now glibly insolent Chart the ulterior firmament, Would you not know my words were lies, Where not my testimonial eyes Mortal or spiritual lodge, Mere uncorroborated fudge? Praise me, though praise I do not want, Rather, that I have cast much cant, That what I see and feel I write Read what I can in this dim light Granted to me in nether night. And though I am vague and shrink to guess God's everlasting purposes, And never save in perplext dream Have caught the least authentic gleam Of the great kingdom and the throne In the world that lies behind our own, I have not lacked my certainties, I have not haggard moaned the skies, Now waged unnecessary strife Nor scorned nor overvalued life. And though you say my attitude Is questioning, concede my mood Does never bring to tongue or pen Accents of gloomy modern men Who wail or hail the death of God And weigh and measure man the clod, Or say they draw reluctant breath And musically mourn that Death Is a queen omnipotent of woe And Life her lean cicisbeo, Abject and pale, whom vampire-like She playeth with ere she shall strike, And pose sad riddles to the Sphinx With raven quills in purple inks,... Then send the boy to fetch more drinks. EPILOGUE Than farthest stars more distant, A mile more, A mile more, A voice cries on insistent: "You may smile more if you will; "You may sing too and spring too; But numb at last And dumb at last, Whatever port you cling to, You must come at last to a hill. "And never a man you'll find there To take your hand And shake your hand; But when you go behind there You must make your hand a sword "To fence with a foeman swarthy, And swink there Nor shrink there, Though cowardly and worthy Must drink there one reward." TWELVE TRANSLATIONS FROM CHARLES BAUDELAIRE TOUT ENTIÈRE