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Written by Charles Baudelaire

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 Nature is a temple where the living pillars
Let go sometimes a blurred speech—
A Forest of symbols passes through a man's reach
And observes him with a familiar regard.
Like the distant echoes that mingle and confound In a unity of darkness and quiet Deep as the night, clear as daylight The perfumes, the colors, the sounds correspond.
The perfume is as fresh as the flesh of an infant Sweet as an oboe, green as a prairie —And the others, corrupt, rich and triumphant Enlightened by the things of infinity, Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense That sing, transporting the soul and sense.

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