Oh moon our fathers worshipped, their love discreet, <br />from the blue country’s heights where the bright seraglio, <br />the stars in their sweet dress, go treading after you, <br />my ancient Cynthia, lamp of my retreat, <br />do you see the lovers, in their bed’s happiness <br />showing in sleep their mouths’ cool enamels, <br />the poet bruising his forehead on his troubles, <br />or the vipers coupling under the dry grasses? <br />Under your yellow cloak, with clandestine pacing, <br />do you pass as before, from twilight to morning, <br />to kiss Endymion’s faded grace? <br />- ‘I see your mother, Child of this impoverished century, <br />who, over her mirror, bends a time-worn face, <br />and powders the breast that fed you, skilfully.’<br /><br />Charles Baudelaire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moon-offended/
