Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)

Translated by Cosmo Monkhouse

AN ANGEL swoops like eagle on his prey,

Grips by the hair the unbelieving wight,

And furious cries, “O scorner of the right,

’Tis I, thine Angel good, who speaks. Obey!

Know, thou shalt love without the least distaste

The poor, the base, the crooked and the dull;

So shall the pageant of thy Lord be graced

With banners by thy love made beautiful.

This is God’s love. See that thy soul be fired

With its pure flame or e’er thy heart grow tired,

And thou shalt know the bliss that lasts for aye.”

Ah! with what ruthless love that Angel grand

Tortures and racks the wretch with giant hand!

—But still he answers “Never, till I die.”