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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Enemy

By Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)

Translation of Miss Katharine Hillard

MY youth swept by in storm and cloudy gloom,

Lit here and there by glimpses of the sun;

But in my garden, now the storm is done,

Few fruits are left to gather purple bloom.

Here have I touched the autumn of the mind;

And now the careful spade to labor comes,

Smoothing the earth torn by the waves and wind,

Full of great holes, like open mouths of tombs.

And who knows if the flowers whereof I dream

Shall find, beneath this soil washed like the stream,

The force that bids them into beauty start?

O grief! O grief! Time eats our life away,

And the dark Enemy that gnaws our heart

Grows with the ebbing life-blood of his prey!