I am as lovely as a dream in stone; 
My breast on which each finds his death in turn 
Inspires the poet with a love as lone 
As everlasting clay, and as taciturn. 

Swan-white of heart, as sphinx no mortal knows, 
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep; 
I hate all movement that disturbs my pose; 
I smile not ever, neither do I weep. 

Before my monumental attitudes, 
Taken from the proudest 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. 

Here is a woman, richly clad and fair, 
Who in her wine dips her long, heavy hair; 
Love's claws, and that sharp poison which is sin, 
Are dulled against the granite of her skin. 
Death she defies, Debauch she smiles upon, 
For their sharp scythe-like talons every one 
Pass by her in their all-destructive play; 
Leaving her beauty till a later day. 
Goddess she walks; sultana in her leisure; 
She has Mohammed's faith that heaven is pleasure, 
And bids all men forget the world's alarms 
Upon her breast, between her open arms. 
She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid 
Without whom the world's onward dream would fade, 
That bodily beauty is the supreme gift 
Which may from every sin the terror lift. 
Hell she ignores, and Purgatory defies; 
And when black Night shall roll before her eyes, 
She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn, Without remorse or hate - as one     reborn