(Translated "from the French of Charles Pierre Baudelaire")

Long ends of autumn, winters, springtimes drowned in mud,
Seasons of drowsiness! I love and laud you, fain
To fold your vaporous palls like Lethe round my brain
And seal in your vague sepulcher my soothèd blood.

In the great wold where glacial winds are revelling,
Where wheels the weathervane through the delaying night,
Better than in soft April dawns, or summer's light,
My soul most amply will unfurl her raven wing.

To a heart replete with funeral memories numberless,
Whereon autumnal frosts have fallen from old time,
Naught is more sweet, O queenliest seasons of our clime,

Than the abiding train of your pale darknesses:—
Except it be some moonless eve of longings dead,
To enslumber all our grief upon a chanceful bed.