(French title from "Une saison en Enfer", by Arthur Rimbaud, but all the lyrics are from "Visions of the daughter of Albion", by William Blake)
What are his nets,and gins and traps; and how does he surround me
With cold floods of abstraction, and with forests of solitude,
To build him castles and high spires, where kings and priests may dwell;
Till she who burns with youth and knows no fixed lot is bound,
In a spell of law to one she loathes?
And must she drag the chain
Of life in weary lust? Must chilling, murderous thoughts obscure
The clear heaven of her eternal spring; to bear the wintry rage
Of a harsh terror driv'n to madness, bound to hold a rod
Over her shrinking shoulders all the day, and all the night
To turn the wheel of false desire, and longings that wake her womb
To the abhorred birth of cherubs in the human form,
That live a pestilence an die a meteor, and are no more;
Till the child dwell with one he hates, and do the deed he loathes,
And the impure scourge forge his seed into its unripe birth,
Ere yet his eyelids can behold the arrows of the day?
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