The poet, sick, and with his chest half bare
Tramples a manuscript in his dark stall,
Gazing with terror at the yawning stair
Down which his spirit finally must fall.
Intoxicating laughs which fill his prison
Invite him to the Strange and the Absurd.
With ugly shapes around him have arisen
Both Death and Terror, multiform and blurred.
This genius cooped in unhealthy hovel,
These cries, grimaces, ghosts that squirm and grovel
Whirling around him, mocking as they call,
This dreamer whom those horrors rouse with screams,
They are your emlem, soul of misty dreams,
Round whom the Real erects its stifling wall.
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2 comments:
I must say, I am quite inadequate when it comes to appreciating such creations.
Silly Prick...
I highly doubt this. Don't be so modest. :-)
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