I leave to Gavarni, that poet of chlorosis, His hospital-beauties in troups that whirl, For I cannot discover amid his pale roses A flower to resemble my scarlet ideal. Since, what for this fathomless heart I require Is--Lady Macbeth you! in crime so dire; --An Æschylus dream transposed from the South-- Or thee, oh great "Night" of Michael-Angelo born, Who so calmly thy limbs in strange posture hath drawn, Whose allurements are framed for a Titan's mouth. The Giantess I should have loved--erewhile when Heaven conceived Each day, some child abnormal and obscene, Beside a maiden giantess to have lived, Like a luxurious cat at the feet of a queen; To see her body flowering with her soul, And grow, unchained, in awe-inspiring art, Within the mists across her eyes that stole To divine the fires entombed within her heart. And oft to scramble o'er her mighty limbs, And climb the slopes of her enormous knees, Or in summer when the scorching sunlight streams Across the country, to recline at ease, And slumber in the shadow of her breast Like an hamlet 'neath the mountain-crest. Hymn to Beauty O Beauty! dost thou generate from Heaven or from Hell? Within thy glance, so diabolic and divine, Confusedly both wickedness and goodness dwell, And hence one might compare thee unto sparkling wine. Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars, Thy perfumes, as upon a sultry night exhale, Thy kiss a philter, and thy mouth a Grecian vase, That renders heroes cowardly and infants hale. Yea, art thou from the planets, or the fiery womb? The demon follows in thy train, with magic fraught, Thou scatter'st seeds haphazardly of joy and doom, Thou govern'st everything, but answer'st unto nought. O Loveliness! thou spurnest corpses with delight, Among thy jewels, Horror hath such charms for thee, And Murder 'mid thy mostly cherished trinklets bright, Upon thy massive bosom dances amorously. The blinded, fluttering moth towards the candle flies, Then frizzles, falls, and falters--"Blessings unto thee"-- The panting swain that o'er his beauteous mistress sighs, Seems like the Sick, that stroke their gravestones lovingly. What matter, if thou comest from the Heavens or Hell, O Beauty, frightful ghoul, ingenuous and obscure! So long thine eyes, thy smile, to me the way can tell Towards that Infinite I love, but never saw. From God or Satan? Angel, Mermaid, Proserpine? What matter if thou makest--blithe, voluptuous sprite-- With rhythms, perfumes, visions--O mine only queen!-- The universe less hideous and the hours less trite. Exotic Perfume When, with closed eyes, on a hot afternoon, The scent of thine ardent breast I inhale, Celestial vistas my spirit assail; Caressed by the flames of an endless sun.