Unhappy is the man, but happy the artist, to whom this desire comes.
I long to paint one woman. She has come to me but seldom, swiftly
passing from my sight, as some beautiful, unforgettable object the
traveller leaves behind him in the night. It is long ago since I saw
her.
She is lovely, far more than that; she is all-sufficing. She is a study
in black: all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are
two deep pools wherein mystery vaguely coils and stirs; her glance is
phosphorescent; it is like lightning on a summer night of black velvet.
She is comparable to a great black Sun, if one could imagine a dark
star brimming over with happiness and light. She stirs within one
dreams of the moon, Night's Queen who casts spells upon her--not
the white moon, that cold bride of summer idylls, but the sinister,
intoxicating moon which hangs in the leaden vault of storm, among the
driven clouds; not the pale, peaceful moon who visits the sleep of the
pure; but the fiery moon, tom from the conquered heavens, before whom
dance the witches of Thessaly.
Upon the brow determination sits; she is ever seeking whom she may
enthrall. Her delicately curved and quivering nostrils breathe incense
from unknown lands; a haunting smile lingers on her subtle lips--lips
softer than sleep-laden poppy petals, kissed by the suns of tropic
lands.
There are women who inspire one with the desire to woo and win. She
makes me long to fall asleep at her feet, beneath her slow and steady
gaze.