The Artists’ Death (La Mort des artistes)

How many times must I shake my rattle
And kiss your low brow, you cheerless lampoon?
To stab at the heart of your mystical prattle,
How many wasted spears have I thrown?

We’ll consume our souls in artful connivance,
And we will bring ruin to ramparts severe
Before we will witness that grandest contrivance
We yearn for detestably, drowning in tears

Some there are who before idols never have trembled
These sculptors condemned and marked with disgrace
Always off pounding their brow and breast

Their one and only hope, strange and dark Temple!
Is that death, like a soaring new sun ordained
Will nourish and grow the flowers of their brains!

[Original poem here.]

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