à quoi bon.
L'azur! l'azur! l'azur! l'azur!
When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns,
the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm
and side,
The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron
stream;
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy
with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate
dream.