I am, O mortals, as beautiful as a dream of stone.
My breasts, which have bruised the lips of each admirer,
have been specially crafted to inspire
the poet with a mute, eternal love. Enthroned
like an inscrutable sphinx against the brilliant sky,
I blend the heart of snow with the swan’s whiteness, and I deplore
all movement that disturbs an ideal contour,
which is why I shall never laugh nor cry.
The poets, confronted with my grand pose,
which seems stolen from fine marble monuments,
shall consume whole days away in intellectual repose;
for I have something to put these docile lovers in a trance—
mirrors, which make all things more stunningly bright—
my eyes, my glittering eyes, animate with a strong, eternal light.