From “One O’ Clock In The Morning,” in Paris Spleen (Varèse translation, New Directions):

“At last! the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and now there will be no one but myself to make me suffer.”

Of course no poet can be acidic all the time, not even Baudelaire.

From “The Stranger”:

“I love the clouds…the clouds that pass…up there…up there…the wonderful clouds!”

Wonderful clouds indeed!