Sunday, August 05, 2007

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day;
But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.
L’Albatros [The Albatross] (translated by James McGowan, Oxford University Press, 1993)

Nature is a temple where living columns Let slip from time to time uncertain words; Man finds his way through forests of symbols Which regard him with familiar gazes.
Correspondances [Correspondences]
[8] -Charles Baudelaire

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