The Sick Muse
Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day? Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn. Have the green lemure and the goblin red, Poured on thee love and terror from their urn? Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne? Would that the breast where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phoebus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.
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"Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day?..."
Charles Baudelaire's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "The Sick Muse"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...