I am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone, And my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn, To inspire the love of a poet is prone, Like matter eternally silent and stern. As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile, My heart a swan's whiteness with granite combines, And I hate every movement, displacing the lines, And never I weep and never I smile. The poets in front of mine attitudes fine (Which the proudest of monuments seem to implant), To studies profound all their moments assign, For I have all these docile swains to enchant— Two mirrors, which Beauty in all things ignite: Mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal Light!