Musings

Be good, oh my Dolor, and keep yourself calmed down.

You called out for Evening; it descends; it’s here:

An atmosphere of dark envelops all the town,

Bringing peace to some, and unto others care.

Whilst of the mortal brood the base low-minded crowd,

Under the lash of Pleasure, that pitiless torturer,

Go and gather remorse in feasts that are not proud,

My Dolor, let have your hand; come this far,

Away. See each and every stooping now dead Year

On heaven’s balconies, clothed in yesteryear;

Arising from the deeps Regret with merriment;

The moribund now Sun sleeps beneath an arch,

And, like a long shroud trailing to the Orient,

Hearken, dear one, hearken sweet Night on the march.

Charles Baudelaire