In vaults of fathomless obscurity

Where Destiny has sentenced me for life;

Where cheerful rosy beams may never shine;

Where, living with that sullen hostess, Night,

 

I am an artist that a mocking God

Condemns, alas! to paint the gloom itself;

Where like a cook with ghoulish appetite

I boil and devour my own heart,

 

Sometimes there sprawls, and stretches out, and glows

A splendid ghost, or a surpassing charm,

And when this vision growing in my sight

 

In oriental languor, like a dream,

Is fully formed, I know the phantom’s name:

Yes, it is She! though black, yet full of light.

 

Written by Charles P. Baudelaire