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

Music full often lifts me like a swelling sea!
After my star long-flown,
Through vaulted brume or ethers of immensity
I set my sail, alone.

With bosom forward borne, suspiring to the wind
Like the great cloth outblown,
I climb the ridges of the piling billows blind
Through veils of night unknown.

I feel vibrate in me the torture and revulsion
Of a storm-torn caravel;
The soft wind, or monsoon with thunderous long convulsion,

Cradles me on the swell
That is, at other times, the mirror calm and fair
Of my supreme despair.