Mist And Rain


Charles Baudelaire

O ends of autumn, winters, springtimes drenched with mud,

Seasons that lull one to sleep! I love you, I praise you

For enfolding my heart and mind like this

In a misty shroud and a filmy tomb.

On that vast plain where the chilly south wind plays,

Where in the long, dark nights the weathervane cock grows hoarse,

My soul spreads wide its raven wings

More easily than in the warm springtime.

Nothing is sweeter to a gloomy heart

On which the hoarfrost has for a long time been falling,

Than the permanent aspect of your pale shadows,

O wan seasons, queens of our climate

Unless it be to deaden suffering, side by side

In a casual bed, on a moonless night.

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