The Venal Muse [Oh Muse of my heart--so fond of palaces old]

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Title:     The Venal Muse [Oh Muse of my heart--so fond of palaces old]
Author: Charles Baudelaire [More Titles by Baudelaire]

Translator: Cyril Scott

Oh Muse of my heart--so fond of palaces old,
Wilt have--when New Year speeds its wintry blast,
Amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast,
A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?

Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive
With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep?
And--void thy purse and void thy palace--reap
A golden hoard within some azure hive?

Thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night,
Suspend the censer like an acolyte,
Te-Deums sing, with sanctimonious ease,

Or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene
Essay to lull the vulgar rabble's spleen;
Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.

[The end]
Charles Baudelaire's poem: Venal Muse

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