POEMS
A. D. Hope
SONNETS TO BAUDELAIRE
VIn
That was one view of Woman I cannot share.
The wound was self-inflicted, I recall,
You suffered, but was there any need at all
For all that martyrdom, horror and despair?
I think you did not fool yourself. You knew
Woman was your laboratory; your delight,
Stretched by that frightful female in the night,
Was a pure scientist's pleasure in the New.
Much worse of course, than your grand tour of Hell
Are the ideals, the sisters of your choice,
Statues in sugar on their pedestals,
Your hymns
a
l'ange,
a
l'idole immortelle!
Thank
God
at times you heard the deep that calls
To the great deep, Love's unmistakable voice.
VIII Les Fleurs du Mal:
Une Nuit que j'etais pres d'una affreuse Juive.
Hymne.
L'Invitation au Voyage.
