L'invitation au voyage [English translation]

My sisterchild, my dear!

Imagine going there

Gently to live together, just us two,

To love and think not why

To love and live and die

Together in the land that is like you.

The soaking suns that rise

Through those cloud-raveled skies

Will move me with the selfsame mystery

And witchery that lie

Within each traitor eye

That shines out through your tears to look at me.

There, there is but beauty, measure,

Luxury, repose and pleasure

A furniture that bears

The polishing of years

Will be the decoration of our chamber,

The very rarest blooms

Commingling their perfumes

With vague and sundry redolence of amber.

Those ceilings richly wrought,

And mirrors deep as thought,

And every wall with Eastern splendors hung

They all would speak apart

To nothing but the heart

In nothing but its tender mother tongue.

There, there is but beauty, measure,

Luxury, repose and pleasure

See vessels in the sweep

Of those canals, asleep,

Whose way it is to wander from their berth.

See how, to answer some

Small wish of yours, they come

Our way through all the waters of this earth.

At close of day the sun

Robes hayfields one by one,

Then the canals, and soon the town outright,

In hyacinth and gold;

The world that we behold

Subsides to slumber in a warm low light.

There, there is but beauty, measure,

Luxury, repose and pleasure

• Artist:Charles Baudelaire
• Album:Les fleurs du mal (1861 - 2ème édition) - 053 - Spleen et idéal - LIII