The Poetry Corner

The Wretched Monk

By Charles Baudelaire

Old monasteries under steadfast walls Displayed tableaux of holy Verity, Warming the inner men in those cold halls Against the chill of their austerity. Those times, when seeds of Christ would thrive and grow, More than one monk, now in obscurity, Taking the graveyard as his studio, Ennobled Death, in all simplicity. My soul's a tomb that, wretched cenobite, I travel in throughout eternity; Nothing adorns the walls of this sad shrine O slothful monk! Oh, when may I assign This living spectacle of misery To labour of my hands, my eyes' delight?