Waning autumn, winter, mudbound spring –
I thank these somnolent seasons which I love
for offering to both my heart and mind
so vaporous a shroud, so vague a tomb.
Here on this huge plain where the wind perfects
a will of its own and the weathervane cries all night,
now and not in the tepid days to come
my soul prefers to spread her raven wings.
Filled with dead and dying things, the heart
itself is frozen fast, and best of all
– O queen of our climate, ashen time of year! –
your livid shadows never seem to change
except on moonless nights when two by two
we rock our pain to sleep on a reckless bed.
Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal