Music often takes me as does a sea! I set sail toward my pale star,
under a ceiling of fog or through the vast ether.
Chest out, lungs filled like sail, I scale the backs of banked,
waves which the nights hides from me.
I feel in me the throb of all the passion ships can suffer. Good
wind, storm, convulsions
above the yowning-gulf they lull me. At other times: flat calm
great mirror of my despair!
Charles Baudelaire