|Baudelaire, Charles "Spleen"|
When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid
Upon the groaning spirit, prey to long monotonies,
And embracing all the horizon's compass
Pours us a black day, sadder than our nights.
When the earth is changed into a dank cell
Where Hope flees bat-like
Beating the walls with timid wings
Striking its head against the rotten roof;
When the rain spreads out its endless trains
Like the bars of a vast prison
Come spread their nets deep in our brains.
Suddenly the bells ring out in fury
And hurl against the sky a fearful scream
Like homeless wandering spirits
That stubbornly begin to groan.
And long hearses, without drum or note
Parade slowly through my soul; Hope beaten
Weeps, and dreadful Anguish, despotic
Upon my bowed skull plants its banner black.