Beauty 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, a sphinx no mortal knows, My throne is in heavan'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. F.P. Sturm