Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows, My throne is in the heaven's azure deep; I hate all movements that disturb my pose, I smile not ever, neither do I weep. Before my monumental attitudes, That breathe a soul into the plastic arts, My poets pray in austere studious moods, For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts, Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies, The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes. THE BALCONY. Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses, O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire, Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses, The charm of evenings by the gentle fire, Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses! The eves illumined by the burning coal, The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings-- How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul! Ah, and we said imperishable things, Those eves illumined by the burning coal. Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm, And space profound, and strong life's pulsing flood, In bending o'er you, queen of every charm, I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood. The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm. The film of night flowed round and over us, And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet; I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous, And in my hands fraternal slept your feet-- Night, like a film, flowed round and over us. I can recall those happy days forgot, And see, with head bowed on your knees, my past. Your languid beauties now would move me not Did not your gentle heart and body cast The old spell of those happy days forgot. Can vows and perfumes, kisses infinite, Be reborn from the gulf we cannot sound; As rise to heaven suns once again made bright After being plunged in deep seas and profound? Ah, vows and perfumes, kisses infinite! THE SICK MUSE. Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day? Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn. Have the green lemure and the goblin red, Poured on thee love and terror from their urn? Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne? Would that thy breast where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phœbus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain. THE VENAL MUSE. Muse of my heart, lover of palaces, When January comes with wind and sleet, During the snowy eve's long wearinesses, Will there be fire to warm thy violet feet?