(From the French of Charles Baudelaire) <br /> <br />All nature is a temple where the alive <br />Pillars breathe often a tremor of mixed words; <br />Man wanders in a forest of accords <br />That peer familiarly from each ogive. <br /> <br />Like thinning echoes tumbling to sleep beyond <br />In a unity umbrageous and infinite, <br />Vast as the night stupendously moonlit, <br />All smells and colors and sounds correspond. <br /> <br />Odors blown sweet as infants' naked flesh, <br />Soft as oboes, green as a studded plain, <br />Others, corrupt, rich and triumphant, thresh <br /> <br />Expansions to the infinite of pain: <br />Amber and myrrh, benzoin and musk condense <br />To transports of the spirit and the sense!<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/correspondences-2/
