Chryselephantine, clear as carven flame,

Before my gaze, thy soul’s eidolon stands,

As on the threshold of the frozen lands

A frozen sun forevermore the same.

All passion that the passive marbles make

Imperishable in their shining sleep,

Is thine; and all the wan despairs that weep

With tears of ice and crystal, cannot break

The heart, which, like a ruby white and rare,

In thy deep breast impenetrably gleams.***

More beautiful than any sphynx, and fair

As Aphrodite dead, thine image seems—

Guarding forever, in its golden eyes,

The treasure of intagliate memories.