With Wine, Poetry, Or Virtue As You

Life Swarms With Innocent Monsters.

What Do I Care If You Are Good? Be Beautiful! And Be Sad!

I Am A Cemetery Abhorred By The Moon, In Which Long Worms Crawl Like Remorse.

Etre Un Homme Utile M'a Paru Toujours Quelque Chose De Bien Hideux. To Be Useful Has Always Seemed To Me Quite Hideous.

I Sit In The Sky Like A Sphinx Misunderstood; My Heart Of Snow Is Wed To The Whiteness Of Swans; I Hate The Movement That Displaces The Rigid Lines, With Lips Untaught Neither Tears Nor Laughter Do I Know.