Explore "The Flowers of Evil" by Charles Pierre Baudelaire on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Oh Muse of my heart -- so fond of palaces old, / Wilt have -- when New Year speeds its wintry blast, / Amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast, / A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?
Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive / With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep? / And -- void thy purse and void thy palace -- reap / A golden hoard within some azure hive?