Corps où rien n'est immonde
Ame où rien n'est impure.
VICTOR HUGO, Feuilles d'automne.
Noble like the adored candor
Of the immortal Florentine poet,
Crown of immaculate forehead
The golden hair
That over her shoulder floats in blonde curls,
The gaze lost in space
Like in the beautiful whole
That of he who contemplates her charms.
There is infinite light that reflects
In the blue of her divine eyes
Like that of clean sapphire in glass.
An expression of serene majesty
Of virginial shame and chastitity
Veils the grace of her red lips,
And she's at the same time a mysterious charm,
A fire, a murmur, a trembling, and a song!
Her voice has the harmonious notes
Of that of the bird that in its soft nest
Of its inability to fly complains,
Full of smoothness, full of calm
Her tender word always leaves
A trail of pearls in the soul.
She has the delicate translucence
Of the wet leaves of the lily
And not the slightest mark on her conscience
And not the slightest shadow on her pupils.
It's an enchanting meeting
Of the sweetest things life contains
With the rose rays of daybreak
Made, from the air in blue veils,
With that which is most delicate on Earth
and that which is most delicate in the Heavens!