Baudelaire

À une passante

La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.
Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse,
Une femme passa, d'une main fastueuse
Soulevant, balançant le feston et l'ourlet;

Agile et noble, avec sa jambe de statue.
Moi, je buvais, crispé comme un extravagant,
Dans son oeil, ciel livide où germe l'ouragan,
La douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui tue.

Un éclair... puis la nuit! — Fugitive beauté 
Dont le regard m'a fait soudainement renaître,
Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l'éternité?

Ailleurs, bien loin d'ici! trop tard! jamais peut-être!
Car j'ignore où tu fuis, tu ne sais où je vais,
Ô toi que j'eusse aimée, ô toi qui le savais!

— Charles Baudelaire


To a Passer-By

The street about me roared with a deafening sound. 
Tall, slender, in heavy mourning, majestic grief, 
A woman passed, with a glittering hand 
Raising, swinging the hem and flounces of her skirt;

Agile and graceful, her leg was like a statue's. 
Tense as in a delirium, I drank 
From her eyes, pale sky where tempests germinate, 
The sweetness that enthralls and the pleasure that kills.

A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty 
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn, 
Will I see you no more before eternity?

Elsewhere, far, far from here! too late! never perhaps!
For I know not where you fled, you know not where I go,
O you whom I would have loved, O you who knew it!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


A Passer-by

The deafening street roared on. Full, slim, and grand 
In mourning and majestic grief, passed down 
A woman, lifting with a stately hand 
And swaying the black borders of her gown;

Noble and swift, her leg with statues matching; 
I drank, convulsed, out of her pensive eye, 
A livid sky where hurricanes were hatching, 
Sweetness that charms, and joy that makes one die.

A lighting-flash — then darkness! Fleeting chance 
Whose look was my rebirth — a single glance! 
Through endless time shall I not meet with you?

Far off! too late! or never! — I not knowing
Who you may be, nor you where I am going — 
You, whom I might have loved, who know it too!

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)


To a Woman Passing By

The deafening road around me roared.
Tall, slim, in deep mourning, making majestic grief,
A woman passed, lifting and swinging
With a pompous gesture the ornamental hem of her garment,

Swift and noble, with statuesque limb.
As for me, I drank, twitching like an old roué,
From her eye, livid sky where the hurricane is born,
The softness that fascinates and the pleasure that kills,

A gleam... then night! O fleeting beauty, 
Your glance has given me sudden rebirth, 
Shall I see you again only in eternity?

Somewhere else, very far from here! Too late! Perhaps never!
For I do not know where you flee, nor you where I am going,
O you whom I would have loved, O you who knew it!

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974) 

To The Lady Who Passed Me By

Around me the street roared with the deafening sound
In grand mourning and majestic grief, a tall, slender
Lady passed me by, and with a glittering hand
Raising and swaying the hem and flounce of her gown;

Gracile and agile, legs were statues-like.
Tense and trembling, I drank, from her eyes,
Pallid sky where storms are born,
The sweetness that enslaves and the pleasure that kills.

A flash of Light, and then back to Night. Beauty in flight.
Whose looks at me suddenly made me feel reborn.
Will I only see you again when I am rejoined with the sky?

Maybe never. So far away and so late, besides.
For I know not where you fled, and you don't know where I go,
Oh my lady whom I would have loved, and only you know it's so.

Wissai/NKBa'

Notes:

1. I couldn't find a word that rhymes with "born" and conveys the meaning of death. So right now, the prosaic "kills" serves the purpose until a better word surfaces.

2. When I was a sweet lad of sixteen, I came across the famous stanza of Ho Dzenh. It stayed with me for over 40 years until one day, out of the blue, I wrote:

Go ahead, make a date with me,
But don't bother to show up.
So, in sorrow, I'd walk around
In the courtyard, watching
The cigarette burning itself out on my fingers,
And softly saying to myself:
"Damn! I do miss her".