To fasten a vain rosebud to his breast
The roses here are faded. I would have
Another bard,—the cloister knight desires
Another song; but be it wild and harsh,
Like to the voice of horns, the clash of swords.
And be it gloomy as the cloister walls,
And fiery as a solitary drunkard.
“Of us, who sanctify and murder men,
Let song of murderous tone proclaim the saintship,
And melt our heart, and rouse to rage,—and weary;