When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid Upon the groaning spirit, prey to long monotonies, And embracing all the horizon's compass Pours us a black day, sadder than our nights. When the earth is changed into a dank cell Where Hope flees bat-like Beating the walls with timid wings Striking its head against the rotten roof; When the rain spreads out its endless trains Like the bars of a vast prison And a silent race of loathsome spiders Come spread their nets deep in our brains. Suddenly the bells ring out in fury And hurl against the sky a fearful scream Like homeless wandering spirits That stubbornly begin to groan. And long hearses, without drum or note Parade slowly through my soul; Hope beaten Weeps, and dreadful Anguish, despotic Upon my bowed skull plants its black banner. Charles Baudlaire