From the Vault - Laforgue and the Sun

A word to the sun for starters....

Sun! Soldier patched up with orders and coughings

Poorly raised planter, know that the Vestales

To whom the Moon, in her equivocal cat-eyeings,

Is the rose of the Only Cathedral.

Know that the Pierrots, moths of the dolmens

And the white lilies of the lake where rests Gommorrah

And all of the benefactors who graze Eden

(Always springlike with renounciations) - abhor ya.

And these especially despise you,

The Hunk, the Indian Giver, the Desperado, the Ruffian,

For the charms of gold eggs that raise them so high to

The world and their lunar Orphan.

Continue to furnish those drunken sunsets

The vomit of tommorrow's national showbiz

To style your seasons, to damn well trounce us

From the dramas of the Umbilical Apotheosis!

Get on, Phoebus! But, Deva, god of wakening riot,

Take a look time to time at these Port-Royal aesthetes ahead

Who, in their lunar decamerons outside

Speak of no less than putting a price on your head.

Certainly, you've got many nice days above;

But of the old customs, it grows, that senate

For what good? who will dream of art and love

At the far door of the inorganic Aggregate.

-Know that we'll say a fine phrase, sonorous

Bone, but quite weak as wet medullary ,

Of all hollow-in-the-end prattle: it's pathos,

It's from Pheobus! - Ah! No need for commentary...

O vision of a time that was punished sufficiently,

From a: "Hey! Get on, Phoebus!"will return your prayer soon

Of old Crescite and multiplicamini,

To inoculate yourself forever against the fresh moon.