25 September 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 3

A Memory

by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

All this was long ago, but I do not forget

Our small white house, between the city and the farms;

The Venus, the Pomona, – l remember yet

How in the leaves they hid their chipping plaster charms;

And the majestic sun at evening, setting late,

Behind the pane that broke and scattered his bright rays,

How like an open eye he seemed to contemplate

Our long and silent dinners with a curious gaze:

The while his golden beams, like tapers burning there,

Made splendid the serge curtains and the simple fare.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay, tr.