it could ne'er be those beauties of ivory vignettes;

the varied display of a worthless age,

nor puppet-like figures with castonets,

that ever an heart like mine could engage.

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 ?schylus 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.