Les Fleurs du Mal - XCIX
I have not forgotten our little white house
at peace on the edge of town:
the plaster Pomona and worn Venus
hiding their nudity in a starved grove,
and the big open eye in the curious heavens,
the late sun streaming, proud at the window
where its sheaf of light broke—that seemed
to contemplate our long, quiet dinners
and scattered lovely glimmers like candle glow
on the frugal cloth and rustic curtains.
The original French and a few other translations are here.