Here you will find the Poem Parisian Dream of poet Charles Baudelaire
Á Constantine Guys I The vague and distant image of this landscape, so terrifying, on which no mortal?s gazed thrilled me again this morning. Sleep is full of miracles! By a singular caprice from that unfolding spectacle I?d banned all shapeless leaf, a painter proud of my artistry I savoured in my picture the enchanting monotony of metal, marble, water. Babel of stairs and arcades, it was an infinite palace full of pools and cascades, falling gold, burnt, or lustreless: and heavy cataracts there like curtains of crystal, dazzling, hung in air from walls of metal. Not trees, but colonnades circled the sleeping pools where colossal naiads gazed at themselves, as women do. Between banks of rose and green, the blue water stretched, for millions of leagues to the universe?s edge: there were un-heard of stones, and magic waves: there were, dazzled by everything shown, enormous quivering mirrors! Impassive and taciturn, Ganges, in the firmament, poured treasures from the urn into abysses of diamond. Architect of this spell, I made a tame ocean swell entirely at my will, through a jewelled tunnel: and all, seemed glossy, clear iridescent: even the shades of black, liquid glory there in light?s crystallised rays. Not a single star, no trace of a sun even, low in the sky, to illuminate this wondrous place that shone with intrinsic fire! And over these shifting wonders hovered (oh dreadful novelty! All for the eye, none for the ear!) the silence of eternity. II Opening eyes filled with flame I saw the horrors of my hovel, and felt the barbs of shameful care, re-entering my soul: brutally with gloomy blows the clock struck mid-day, and the sky poured shadows on a world, benumbed and grey.