Spleen by Charles Baudelaire (translated by Norman R. Shapiro)
When, on our groaning, ennui-ridden soul,
The heavens hang low, weigh like a lid, pressed tight;
When, circling the horizon like a bowl,
They pour a daylight sad as blackest night;
.
When earth turns dungeon dank, where Hope, much like
A bat, entrapped, in desperation seems
To flail the walls with timid wing, and strike
Her head against the ceiling’s rotting beams;