From Pale Hands To Weary Skies

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I love you most of all when joy
Flees from your oppressed brow,
When your heart is drowned in horror,
When the frightful cloud of the Past
Is spread out over your Present.

I love you when your large eyes shed
Tears as hot as blood, when
In spite of my hand which lulls you
Your unbearable pain comes through
Like a dying man’s death-rattle.

Taken from Madrigal triste ( Charles Baudelaire’s Fleurs du mal)

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