Page:Poems of Baudelaire Sturm.djvu/123

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a burnt, ashen land, where no herb grew, I to the winds my cries of anguish threw; And in my thoughts, in that sad place apart, Pricked gently with the poignard o’er my heart. Then in full noon above my head a cloud Descended tempest-swollen, and a crowd Of wild, lascivious spirits huddled there, The cruel and curious demons of the air, Who coldly to consider me began; Then, as a crowd jeers some unhappy man, Exchanging gestures, winking with their eyes— I heard a laughing and a whispering rise:

"Let us at leisure contemplate this clown, This shadow of Hamlet aping Hamlet's frown, With wandering eyes and hair upon the wind. Is’t not a pity that this empty mind, This tramp, this actor out of work, this droll, Because he knows how to assume a rôle