Beauty

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I’m fair, O mortals, as a dream of stone;
My breasts whereon, in turn, your wrecks you shatter,
Were made to wake in poets’ hearts alone
A love as indestructible as matter.

A sky-throned sphinx, unknown yet, I combine
The cygnet’s whiteness with a heart of snow.
I loathe all movement that displaces line,
And neither tears nor laughter do I know.

Poets before my postures, which I seem
To learn from masterpieces, love to dream
And there in austere thought consume their days.

I have, these docile lovers to subject,
Mirrors that glorify all they reflect —
These eyes, great eyes, eternal in their blaze!

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

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