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by Charles Baudelaire (Translated by Rachel Hadas)
A fountain's pulsing sobs——like this my blood Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems. I hear a gentle murmur1 as it streams; Where the wound lies I've never understood. Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded. Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet2 rills, Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill. Nothing in nature now remains3 unblooded. I used to hope that wine could bring me ease, Could lull4 asleep my deeply gnawing5 mind. I was a fool: the senses clear with wine. I looked to Love to cure my old disease. 点击收听单词发音
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