Correspondences

"There can be no progress (real, that is, moral) except in the individual and by the individual himself ".

Charles Baudelaire

Nature's a temple where each living column, 

At times, gives forth vague words. There Man advances
Through forest-groves of symbols, strange and solemn,
Who follow him with their familiar glances.

As long-drawn echoes mingle and transfuse
Till in a deep, dark unison they swoon,
Vast as the night or as the vault of noon 
So are commingled perfumes, sounds, and hues.

There can be perfumes cool as children's flesh,
Like fiddies, sweet, like meadows greenly fresh.
Rich, complex, and triumphant, others roll.

With the vast range of all non-finite things 
Amber, musk, incense, benjamin, each sings
The transports of the senses and the soul.