Genur.art

I am as beautiful, O mortals! as a dream of stone, And my breast, on which each man is wounded in turn, Is made to inspire in the poet a love As eternal and mute as matter. I preside in the heavens like a misunderstood sphinx; I unite a heart of snow with the whiteness of swans; I hate all movement which displaces lines, And I never weep and I never laugh. The poets before my great poses, Which I seem to borrow from the proudest monuments, Will consume their days in austere studies; For I have, in order to fascinate these docile lovers, Pure mirrors which make all things more beautiful: My eyes, my large eyes with their eternal light!