Be calm, my pain and venture to be still
You clamoured for the Night; it falls; is here;
The city shrouds itself in blackest chill,
Brings peace to some, to others fear.
'Neath pleasure's lash, the grim high executioner,
Mortal souls, that vile and worthless throng,
Reap grim remorse amidst the abject ceremony,
Pain, take my hand and let us now along...
- Baudelaire
