How often, grim Caricature, must I
jingle my bells and kiss your bestial brow?
Until my aim is true - the circle squared -
how many arrows forfeit to the Void?
We rack our brains with subtle stratagems
and ruin many massive armatures
before the splendid Creature may be seen
for whom our fatal longing makes us sob?
To some their idol will not be revealed,
and those doomed sculptors, branded with disgrace,
upbraid themselves and lacerate their breasts,
nursing one hope, sepulchral Capitol! -
that Death as it fills the sky like another sun
will make the flowers of their devising bloom!
(Charles Baudelaire, La Mort des artistes, tr. Richard Howard)
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