The day itself seems to pass quickly, too. The crickets concealed among the burgeoning plants begin their chirps early, while the sky is still bright, but soon dusk begins to erase details, and the breezes freshen, bringing a cooling air. There will be no moon for hours, and spring stars will have the sky to themselves until the thin, waning crescent rises a thin hour or so ahead of morning twilight. All that cool, starlit night will be mine. Tomorrow the sun will claim both sky and air again.
by Charles Baudelaire
Nature is a temple whose living colonnades
Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs;
Man wanders among symbols in those glades
Where all things watch him with familiar eyes.
Like dwindling echoes gathered far away
Into a deep and thronging unison
Huge as the night or as the light of day,
All scents and sounds and colors meet as one.
Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound,
Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress,
And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound
And of an infinite pervasiveness,
Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, the excite
The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight.