Baudelaire: His Prose and Poetry
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Chapter 39 No.39

We are like whirling tops and rolling balls-

For even when the sleepy night-time falls,

Old Curiosity still thrusts us on,

Like the cruel Angel who goads forth the sun.

The end of fate fades ever through the air,

And, being nowhere, may be anywhere

Where a man runs, hope waking in his breast,

For ever like a madman, seeking res

            
            

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