When the sky low and heavy weights like a lid on the spirit groaning in the throes of long anguish, and conversely, embracing the whole horizon around a black day sadder than the night when the earth has become damp prison where hope, like a bat, it should be slamming against walls and banging his head timid wing on rotten ceilings, when the rain, stretching its huge strips, imitates the bars of a large prison, and dumb people of infamous spiders tend the nets at the bottom of the our brains, the bells suddenly slamming furiously into the sky and throw a horrible scream, like wandering spirits and homeless, who get to moan stubbornly. - And long hearses, without drums or bands, parade slowly in my soul won, Hope cries, and the dreadful Anguish, despotic, a plant on my head bent over his black banner.
BAUDELAIRE .... SPLEEN