One of my favorites by Baudelaire.
A heart like mine will not be satisfied
With those vignette-style lovelies, weatherworn-
Fingers in castanets, feel tightly tied
In buskin-boots-of worthless century born.
I leave to Gavarni's anemic brush
His cooing flock of hospice belles- wan, weak:
I find among those roses' pallid blush
No bloom to match that red ideal I seek.
My chasm-heart needs Aeschylus to strew
Its unplumbed depths with ancient dream; like you,
Lady Macbeth, soul of foul crime impassioned;
Or you, Night- child of Michelangelo's
Begetting- who, in calm, eccentric pose,
Writhe with those charms for Titans' mouths once fashioned.
Translated by Norman R. Shapiro