Through the streets where at windows of old houses <br />the persian blinds hide secret luxuries, <br />when the cruel sun strikes with redoubled fury <br />on the roofs and fields, the meadows and city, <br />I go alone in my crazy sword-play <br />scenting a chance rhyme on every road-way, <br />stumbling on words and over the pavement <br />finding verses I often dreamed might be sent. <br />This nurturing father, anaemia’s foe <br />stirs, in the fields, the worm and the rose, <br />makes our cares evaporate into the blue, <br />fills the hives and our brains with honey-dew. <br />It is he who gives youth to the old man, the cripple, <br />makes them like young girls, happy and gentle, <br />and commands the crops to grow ripe in an hour <br />of the immortal heart, that so longs to flower. <br />When he shines on the town, a poet that sings, <br />he redeems the fate of the meanest things, <br />like a king he enters, no servants, alone, <br />all palaces, all hospitals where men moan.<br /><br />Charles Baudelaire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sun-65/
