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How many times must I shake my clown’s bells And kiss your low brow, sad caricature? In order to strike the target, of mystical nature, How many javelins must I lose, O quiver?

We will wear out our souls in subtle schemes, And dismantle many a heavy armor, Before contemplating the great Creature Whose infernal desire fills us with sobs!

There are some who have never known their Idol, And those banned sculptors branded with an affront, Who as they walk beat their chests and their brows,

Have but one hope, strange and somber Capitol! It is that Death, hovering like a new sun, Will cause the flowers of their minds to bloom!

Baudelaire