To my dearest Ricardo lrving,
from out of the depths I screamed:
"O my sole love I pray thee pity me,
from out this dark gulf where my poor heart lies,
a barren world hemmed in by leaden skies
where horror flies at night,
and blasphemy,
For half the year the sickly sun is seen,
the other night cold night lies on the land,
A country bleaker than the polar sands,
no beasts, nor brooks, nor any shade of green.
There never was a horror which surpassed,
this icy sun's cold cruelty and this vast,
night like primaeval chaos, would I were
Like the dumb brutes, who in a secret lair
Lie wrapt in stupid slumber for a space...
Time creeps at so burdensome a pace."
~Baudelaire