1Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame. 2Take the moral law and make a nave of it 3And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus, 4The conscience is converted into palms, 5Like windy citherns hankering for hymns. 6We agree in principle. That's clear. But take 7The opposing law and make a peristyle, 8And from the peristyle project a masque 9Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness, 10Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, 11Is equally converted into palms, 12Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm, 13Madame, we are where we began. Allow, 14Therefore, that in the planetary scene 15Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed, 16Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade, 17Proud of such novelties of the sublime, 18Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk, 19May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves 20A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres. 21This will make widows wince. But fictive things 22Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
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