i am lovely, o mortals, like a dream of stone,

and my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn,

to inspire the love of a poet is prone,

like matter eternally silent and stern.

as an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the nile,

my heart a swan's whiteness with granite combines,

and i hate every movement, displacing the lines,

and never i weep and never i smile.

the poets in front of mine attitudes fine

(which the proudest of monuments seem to implant),

to studies profound all their moments assign,

for i have all these docile swains to enchant—

two mirrors, which beauty in all things ignite:

mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal light!