Harvest Poem by Morgan Michaels

Sorrow, be calm, don't tremble so.
The night, the night is nearly here
Darkness, falls over Paris now
Bringing solace to Care.

While the multitudes of men
Set forth to thresh in Pleasure's fields
And taste the delicious lash he wields,
Give me your hand, my Sorrow, come.

See how the cancelled years lean down
From the alcoves of the sky in their dimity gowns
And Regret smiles back from every pool;

Parked in an arch, the sun bleeds out his light.
There, by land's end- hear them, dear,
The quickly running footsteps of the night.


by Baudelaire