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

"From this bizarre and livid sky,
Tormented like your doom and mine,
On your void spirit passing by,
What thoughts descend, O libertine ?"

—Athirst for mortal things unsung
In shadowy realms of lone surmise,
I will not whine like Ovid, flung
From out the Latin paradise.

Skies torn like strands of ocean-streams,
In you is mirrored all my pride!
Your slow, enormous clouds abide

The dolent hearses of my dreams;
Your glimmers mock with fluctuant lights
The hell wherein my heart delights.