I am lovely, O mortals, as a dream of stone,
And my breast, where everyone has tortured himself turn by turn,
Is made to inspire in poets a love
Eternal and mute as material.
I throne in the blue like a non-understood sphinx,
I unite a heart of snow with the whiteness of swans,
I hate the movement which displaces the lines
And never do I cry and never do I laugh.
Poets, before my great attitudes,
Which I've the air of borrowing from the proudest monuments
Will eat up their days in austere studies
Cos I've, to fascinate these docile lovers
Pure mirrors, which make all things more beautiful
My eyes. My large eyes with lights eternal.
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