The Bad Monk
Charles Baudelaire
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed Murals displaying Truth the saint, Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails Brought to an austere chill a warming paint. In the times when Christ was seeded around, More than one illustrious monk, today unknown Took for a studio the funeral grounds And glorified Death as the one way shown. —My soul is a tomb, an empty confine Since eternity I scour and I reside; Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty. O lazy monk! When will I see The living spectacle of my misery, The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Next 10 Poems
- Charles Baudelaire : The Dance Of Death
- Charles Baudelaire : The Enemy
- Charles Baudelaire : The Eyes Of Beauty
- Charles Baudelaire : The Flask
- Charles Baudelaire : The Ghost
- Charles Baudelaire : The Irreparable
- Charles Baudelaire : The Living Flame
- Charles Baudelaire : The Owls
- Charles Baudelaire : The Remorse Of The Dead
- Charles Baudelaire : The Sadness Of The Moon
Previous 10 Poems
- Charles Baudelaire : The Albatross
- Charles Baudelaire : Spleen Iv
- Charles Baudelaire : Spleen Iii
- Charles Baudelaire : Spleen Ii
- Charles Baudelaire : Spleen I
- Charles Baudelaire : Spleen
- Charles Baudelaire : Sonnet Of Autumn
- Charles Baudelaire : Reversibility
- Charles Baudelaire : Parfum Exotique
- Charles Baudelaire : My Earlier Life