Nature is a forest where the living limbs
Of trees drop clues like dying leaves
On anyone underneath them who believes
In such familiar passing whims,

Distant echoes of a dark and deep ravine
Where night and day are intertwined
And in whose mixing light we find
What the deeper spaces mean.

These combining scents would seem
To fuse us with a purer world,
Where amber dusk and incense dream

Of all the final riches swirled
Or stitched from childhood’s gleam,
But which in fact are just its seam.


"Correspondances" by Charles Baudelaire, translated by Peter Halstead.