BEAUTY

Conceive me as a dream of stone:

my breast, where mortals come to grief,

is made to prompt all poets' love,

mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,

I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx

begrudging acts that alter forms;

I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood

before my monumental pose

aped from the proudest pedestal,

and to bind these docile lovers fast

I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes.