Finer than any sand are dusts of gold that gleam, Vague starpoints, in the mystic iris of their eyes.
Charles Baudelairethe Devil's hand directs our every move - / the things we loathed become the things we love
Charles BaudelaireThe Poet is a kinsman in the clouds Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day; But on the ground, among the hooting crowds, He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.
Charles Baudelaire