The Sick Muse
My poor Muse, alas! what ails you today?
Your hollow eyes are full of nocturnal visions;
I see in turn reflected on your face
Horror and madness, cold and taciturn.
Have the green succubus, the rosy elf,
Poured out for you love and fear from their urns?
Has the hand of Nightmare, cruel and despotic,
Plunged you to the bottom of some weird Minturnae?
I would that your bosom, fragrant with health,
Were constantly the dwelling place of noble thoughts,
And that your Christian blood would flow in rhythmic waves
Like the measured sounds of ancient verse,
Over which reign in turn the father of all songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, lord of harvest.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
The Sick Muse
What's the matter with you today, Muse?
Are you going to tell me about last night's visions,
Heads on spikes, natives dancing a frenzied juba,
And all kinds of other stuff?
Oh you pink-lipped succubus!
You just don't want me to shoot into you.
You say you drowned, at Actium or Lepanto.
Again? What a nightmare.
I only want you to heave health
Be thinking of strongly urged Christian Things
And you tied to a bed
So, count it out and
Moan your dirge —
I'm climbing on.
— Will Schmitz
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