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Under the black yew trees that
shelter them,
The owls sit in rows,
Like foreign gods,
Darting out their red eyes. They are thinking.

They will sit without moving
Until that melancholy hour
When, pushing aside the slanting sun,
The shadows fall.

Their posture teaches the wise man
That he must, in this world, fear
Tumult and movement;

The man intoxicated by every passing shadow
Bears forever the punishment
Of having wanted to change places.
BAUDELAIRE