My face is a marmoreal dream, O mortals!
And on my breast all men are bruised in turn,
So moulded that the poet's love may burn
Mute and eternal as the earth's cold portals.
Throned like a Sphinx unveiled in the blue deep,
A heart of snow my swan-white beauty muffles;
I hate the line that undulates and ruffles:
And never do I laugh and never weep.
The poets, prone beneath my presence towering
With stately port of proudest obelisks,
Worship with rites austere, their days devouring;
For I have charms to keep their love, pure disks
That make all things more beautiful and tender:
My large eyes, radiant with eternal splendour!
LA BEAUTÉ.