Page:Poems of Baudelaire Sturm.djvu/76

Rh

we suppress the old Remorse Who bends our heart beneath his stroke, Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse, Or as the acorn on the oak? Can we suppress the old Remorse?

Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell, May we drown this our ancient foe, Destructive glutton, gorging well, Patient as the ants, and slow? What wine, what philtre, or what spell?

Tell it, enchantress, if you can, Tell me, with anguish overcast, Wounded, as a dying man, Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past. Tell it, enchantress, if you can,

To him the wolf already tears Who sees the carrion pinions wave This broken warrior who despairs To have a cross above his grave— This wretch the wolf already tears.