The Death Of Artists
How many times must I jingle my little bells And kiss your ugly forehead, shabby substitute? How many, 0 my quiver, spears and bolts to lose Trying to hit the target, nature's mystic self? We will wear out our souls concocting subtle schemes, And we'll be wrecking heavy armatures we've done Before we gaze upon the great and wondrous One, For whom we've often sobbed, wracked by the devil's dreams! But some have never known their Idol face to face These poor, accursed sculptors, marked by their disgrace, Who go to beat themselves about the breast and brow, Have only but a hope, strange sombre Capitol! It is that Death, a new and hovering sun, will find A way to bring to bloom the flowers of their minds!
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"How many times must I jingle my little bells..."
Charles Baudelaire's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "The Death Of Artists"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...