Spleen IV

  When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
  On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,
  And from the all-encircling horizon
  Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;

  When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon,
  In which Hope like a bat
  Goes beating the walls with her timid wings
  And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling;

  When the rain stretching out its endless train
  Imitates the bars of a vast prison
  And a silent horde of loathsome spiders
  Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains,

  All at once the bells leap with rage
  And hurl a frightful roar at heaven,
  Even as wandering spirits with no country
  Burst into a stubborn, whimpering cry.

  Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished,
  Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish
  On my bowed skull plants her black flag.