Beauty

  I am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone,
  And my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn,
  To inspire the love of a poet is prone,
  Like matter eternally silent and stern.

  As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile,
  My heart a swan's whiteness with granite combines,
  And I hate every movement, displacing the lines,
  And never I weep and never I smile.

  The poets in front of mine attitudes fine
  (Which the proudest of monuments seem to implant),
  To studies profound all their moments assign,

  For I have all these docile swains to enchant—
  Two mirrors, which Beauty in all things ignite:
  Mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal Light!