BEAUTY 
I am beautiful, O mortals!
Like a dream of stone,
And my breast,
where each has been bruised in turn,
Is made to inspire the poet with an Eternal and mute love like matter.
I throne in the azure like a misunderstood sphinx; I unite a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans;
I hate the movement that moves the lines,
And I never cry and I never laugh.
The poets, in front of my great attitudes,
Which I seem to borrow from the proudest monuments,
Will consume their days in austere studies;
For I have, to fascinate these docile lovers,
Pure mirrors that make all things more beautiful: My eyes, my wide eyes of eternal light!