From this sky ashen and purple,
Tormenting you like your fate,
What thoughts to your empty soul
Descend?—Respond, profligate.

Insatiably keen
For the obscure and uncertain,
I won't, like Ovid, complain
When chased from the Latin heaven.

Sky torn away like a seaside,
In you is mirrored my pride;
Your vast clouds' bereaving blur

Is the hearse for my hopeless dreams,
And reflected in your gleams
Is the Hell where my pleased heart lingers.

Source: Baudelaire. "Sympathetic Horror". Trans. William A. Sigler. The Flowers Of Sickness And Evil By Charles Baudelaire (6 February 2000). http://home.carolina.rr.com/alienfamily/82.htm. Accessed 16 December 2002.