(_L'Idéal_)
I hate those beauties in old prints,
Those faded, simpering, slippered pets;
Vignetted in a room of chintz,
And clacking silly castanets.
I leave Gavarni all his dolls,
His sickly harems, pale and wan,
The beauties of the hospitals
I do not wish to look upon.
Red roses are the roses real!
Among the pale and virginal
Sad flowers, I find not my ideal
... Vermilion or cardinal!
The panther-women hold my heart--
Macbeth's dark wife, of men accurst,
... A dream of Æschylus thou art,
'Tis such as thou shall quench my thirst!
... Or Michelangelo's daughter, Night,
Who broods on her own beauty, she
For whose sweet mouth the Giants fight,
Queen of my ideal love shall be!