Nothing in nature now remains unblooded. I used to hope that wine could bring me ease, Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind. I was a fool: the senses clear with wine. I looked to Love to cure my old disease. Love led me to a thicket of IVsWhere bristling needles thirsted for each vein.
Charles BaudelaireAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet, Critic
- Nationality: french
- Born: April 9, 1821
- Died: August 31, 1867
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