Music (by Charles Baudelaire)

Music will often take me like the sea!
When clouds are low
Or in clear ether, I, towards my pale star,
Set sail and go;

With chest thrust forward and with lungs puffed out
My sails are tight;
I climb the backs of all the heaped-up waves
As day turns night;

Throbbing within me are the passions of
A suffering ship;
The mild breeze, or the tempest and its throes

On the abyss
Rock me. At other time, dead calm, the glass
Of hopelessness.