Explore "The Martyred Decadents: a Sympathetic Satire" by Robert Graves on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We strain our strings thus tight, / Our voices pitch thus high, / A song to indite / That nevermore shall die.
The Poet being divine / Admits no social sin, / Spurring with wine / And lust the Muse within.
Finding no use at all / In arms or civic deeds, / Perched on a wall / Fulfilling fancy's needs.
Let parents, children, wife, / Be ghosts beside his art, / Be this his life / To hug the snake to his heart.
Sad souls, the more we stress / The advantage of our crown, / So much the less / Our welcome by the Town,
By the gross and rootling hog / Who grunts nor lifts his head, / By jealous dog / Or old ass thistle-fed.
By so much less their praise, / By so much more our glory. / Grim pride outweighs / The anguish of our story.
We strain our strings thus tight, / Our voices pitch thus high, / To enforce our right / Over futurity.