27 November 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 3

The Fountain of Blood

by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

It seems to me sometimes my blood is bubbling out

As fountains do, in rhythmic sobs; I feel it spout

And lapse; I hear it plainly; it makes a murmuring sound;

But from what wound it wells, so far I have not found.

As blood runs in the lists, round tumbled armored bones,

It soaks the city, islanding the paving-stones;

Everything thirsty leans to lap it, with stretched head;

Trees suck it up; it stains their trunks and branches red.

I turn to wine for respite, I drink, and I drink deep;

(Just for one day, one day, neither to see nor hear!)

Wine only renders sharper the frantic eye and ear.

In terror I cry to love, "Oh, put my mind to sleep!"

But love for me is only a mattress where I shrink

On needles, and my blood is given to whores to drink.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay, Tr.