“Not that I rise against thee, Poetry,Mother of Beauty, of ideal Life!But I must pity him condemned to dwellWithin the limits of these whirling worldsIn dying agonies, or yet to be,Doomed to sad memories, or prophecies,Perchance remorse, or vague presentiments,—Who gives himself to thee! for everywhereThou ruinest wholly those who consecrateThemselves, with all they are, to thee alone,Who solely live the voices of thy glory!”Help us translate this quoteZygmunt Krasiński The Undivine Comedy
“Alas! thou sufferest, too, although thy pangsBring naught to birth, nothing create, nor serve!”Help us translate this quoteZygmunt Krasiński The Undivine Comedy
“Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,—Thou turn'st away thy face, while scatteringPerchance upon his brow some fading flowers,Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!”Help us translate this quoteZygmunt Krasiński The Undivine Comedy