The Lamentations

In the solemn depths of a twilight wood,
Where trees lament and shadows brood;
The rustle of leaves, an ominous sigh,
Echoes the whisperings of days gone by.

Beneath the sun’s departing kiss,
I weep for the beauty I shall miss;
As dusk unfurls her silken veil,
The nightingale sings of love’s frail tale.

Each echoing note, a haunting cry,
Of nature’s providence, death can’t deny;
Such beauty dwindles under dark’s embrace,
Yet life’s echo lingers—a sacred trace.

• Charles Baudelaire