Baudelairian "Clips"
From Paris Spleen : Life is a hospital, in which every patient is possessed by the desire of changing his bed. One would prefer to suffer near the fire, and another is certain that he would get well if he were by the window. It seems to me that I should always be happy if I were somewhere else, and this question of moving house is one that I am continually talking over with my soul. * Two poems (from Knopf's Everyman's -- my breaks): ARTIST UNKNOWN Flesh is willing, but the Soul requires Sisyphean patience for its song. Time, Hippocrates remarked, is short and Art is long. No illustrious tombstones ornament the lonely churchyard where I often go to hear my heart, a muffled drum, parade incognito. ‘Many a gem,’ the poet mourns, abides forgotten in the dust, unnoticed there; ‘many a rose’ regretfully confides the secret of its scent to empty air. 'I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN ...' I have not forgotten the house we lived...