To the Reader
My dear, when I survey in nature’s name, Upon the height of twisted trees aflame, And the shimmering depths of pale leaves setting, I undergo the breaths of autumn’s soft debts.
What lurks in the echo of forsaken roads, What answers to the sorrows and to the gods, Will speak my name in the dark night’s refrain, Long colors etched upon the shadows disdain.
- Charles Baudelaire