Spleen

The roses were bright red
The ivy deepest black. 

My love, your slightest movement
Rekindles my despair.

Too blue, the sky, too soft,
The sea too green, too sweet the air.

And still I fear you'll vanish--
Such torture, waiting!

I'm tired of waxy-leaf holly,
Of gleaming box-tree,

I'm tired of endless countryside,
Of all, in fact, save you.

           -Paul Verlaine.