Un Fantome: Le Cadre, Le Portrait

I suppose we could call it paranoia, or just a strange coincidence. I don't believe in coincidences. What I do believe in is the power of one's own fist against the skull of their co-worker.
Please kill me now. Too many drinks, not enough sleep, and an unsettling dream which somehow combined elements of The Other Boleyn Girl, Sin City, and my past life.

Here is the rest of the poem.

A Phantom

III. The Frame

Like a beautiful frame adds to the painting,
Even though she is from a much-vaunted brush,
A strange and enchanted something
In the isolation of immense nature,

Thus jewels, furnishings, metals, gildings,
Adapted rightly to her rare beauty,
Nothing offended her perfect clarity
And all seemed to serve as a frame for her.

One even would have said at times she believed
That all wanted to love her; she drowned
Her nudity voluptuously

In the kisses of satin and linens,
And, slow or sudden, to every moment
Showed the infantile grace of an ape.

IV. The Portrait

Sickness and Death make ashes
Of all the fire that flared up for us.
Of these great eyes so fervent and so tender,
Of that mouth where my heart drowned itself,

Of these kisses strong like dittany,
Of these transports more vivid than light rays,
What remains? It is dreadful, oh my soul!
Nothing but a strongly pale design, in three colors,

Which, like me, dies in the solitude,
And which Time, abusive elder,
Rubs every day with his rough wing…

Black assassin of Life and of Art,
You will never kill in my memory
That which was my pleasure and my glory!

Un Fantome

III. Le Cadre

Comme un beau cadre ajoute à la peinture,
Bien qu'elle soit d'un pinceau très-vanté,
Je ne sais quoi d'étrange et d'enchanté
En l'isolant de l'immense nature,

Ainsi bijoux, meubles, métaux, dorure,
S'adaptaient juste à sa rare beauté;
Rien n'offusquait sa parfaite clarté,
Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure.

Même on eût dit parfois qu'elle croyait
Que tout voulait l'aimer; elle noyait
Sa nudité voluptueusement

Dans les baisers du satin et du linge,
Et, lente ou brusque, à chaque mouvement
Montrait la grâce enfantine du singe.

IV. Le Portrait

La Maladie et la Mort font des cendres
De tout le feu qui pour nous flamboya.
De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres,
De cette bouche où mon coeur se noya,

De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame,
De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons,
Que reste-t-il? C'est affreux, ô mon âme!
Rien qu'un dessin fort pâle, aux trois crayons,

Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude,
Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard,
Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude...

Noir assassin de la Vie et de l'Art,
Tu ne tueras jamais dans ma mémoire
Celle qui fut mon plaisir et ma gloire!