Page:Poems and Baudelaire Flowers.djvu/83

She was quite pretty still, my wife,
Though she was very tired, and I,
I loved her too much, that is why
I said to her, “Come, quit this life.”

No one can grasp my thought aright;
Did any of these sodden swine
Ever conceive a shroud of wine
On his most strangely morbid night?

Dull and insensible above
Iron machines, that stupid crew,
Summer or winter, never knew
The agonies of real love.

So now I am without a care!
Dead-drunk this evening I shall be,
Then fearlessly, remorselessly
Shall lie out in the open air.

And sleep there like a homeless cur;
Some cart may rumble with a load
Of stones or mud along the road
And crush my head—I shall not stir.

Some heavy dray incontinent
May come and cut me clean in two:
I laugh at thought o’t as I do
At Devil, God, and Sacrament.