The whole west is a lemon yellow.
At the barred zenith, beneath the silent clouds,
black flocks of melancholy birds
streak, constantly, the false sky like rain.
Around the garden, gloomy with its leaden haloes,
the roses have a violet wash,
and the uncertain dusk, which changes all truths,
drops I know not what damp vapors into all that it brushes.
Livid, dazzled by the yellow and leaden-grim,
like a horse-fly there hums in my ears
a monotonous catch, which comes from I know not where...
which leaves tears...which says: "Never...never..."