Baudelaire: His Prose and Poetry
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Chapter 12 No.12

But by no hand nor any treason stricken,

Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King,

The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing,

Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken

There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear

Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear

Down the opening leaves of holy poet's pages.

Thee not Ores

            
            

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