by Charles Baudelaire （Translated by Rachel Hadas）

    Free as a bird and joyfully¹ my heart

    Soared up among the rigging， in and out；

    Under a cloudless sky the ship rolled on

    Like an angel drunk with brilliant sun.

    "That dark， grim island there——which would that be？"

    "Cythera，" we're told， "the legendary² isle³

    Old bachelors tell stories of and smile.

    There's really not much to it， you can see."

    O place of many a mystic sacrament！

    Archaic⁴ Aphrodite's splendid shade

    Lingers above your waters like a scent⁵

    Infusing spirits with an amorous⁶ mood.

    Worshipped from of old by every nation，

    Myrtle-green isle， where each new bud discloses

    Sighs of souls in loving adoration⁷

    Breathing like incense⁸ from a bank of roses

    Or like a dove roo-cooing endlessly . . .

    No； Cythera was a poor infertile⁹ rock，

    A stony¹⁰ desert harrowed by the shriek¹¹

    Of gulls¹². And yet there was something to see：

    This was no temple deep in flowers and trees

    With a young priestess moving to and fro，

    Her body heated by a secret glow，

    Her robe half-opening to every breeze；

    But coasting nearer， close enough to land

    To scatter¹³ flocks of birds as we passed by，

    We saw a tall cypress-shaped thing at hand——

    A triple gibbet black against the sky.

    Ferocious¹⁴ birds， each perched on its own meal，

    Were madly tearing at the thing that hung

    And ripened¹⁵； each， its filthy¹⁶ beak¹⁷ a drill，

    Made little bleeding holes to root among.

    The eyes were hollowed. Heavy guts¹⁸ cascading¹⁹

    Flowed like water halfway²⁰ down the thighs²¹；

    The torturers， though gorged²² on these vile²³ joys，

    Had also put their beaks²⁴ to use castrating

    The corpse²⁵. A pack of dogs beneath its feet，

    Their muzzles²⁶ lifted， whirled and snapped and gnawed²⁷；

    One bigger beast amidst this jealous lot

    Looked like an executioner with his guard.

    O Cytherean， child of this fair clime，

    Silently you suffered these attacks，

    Paying the penalty for whatever acts

    Of infamy²⁸ had kept you from a tomb.

    Grotesquely²⁹ dangling³⁰， somehow you brought on——

    Violent as vomit³¹ rising from the chest，

    Strong as a river bilious³² to taste——

    A flow of sufferings I'd thought long gone.

    Confronted with such dear remembered freight，

    Poor devil， now it was my turn to feel

    A panther's slavering jaws³³， a beak's cruel drill——

    Once it was my flesh they loved to eat.

    The sky was lovely， and the sea divine，

    but something thick and binding³⁴ like a shroud³⁵

    Wrapped my heart in layers of black and blood；

    Henceforth this allegory would be mine.

    O Venus！ On your isle what did I see

    But my own image on the gallows³⁶ tree？

    O God， give me the strength to contemplate³⁷

    My own heart， my own body without hate！

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