I. Chloe, sister of Beatrice, Whose lips are lauds and vespers said at once, As gold as evening and as pale, Pure and irenic as the dawn; That misty arabesque of silk Avers itself a glass and veil; Nor Venus new-sprung from the foam Could shock the falcon from its height, Like as that neck, like as that thigh; Once more has Icarus failed in his flight. What mermaid thrid that evening-dress Of pearly green and green turquoise, That makes the earth your night, and you its moon? Whosoever, ‘twas to all men a boon. That slender waist, sweet nymph, could please World-hating Manicheas, And hummingbirds in twos and threes Make secret pilgrimage to the lotus That is your jasmine-clothed bosom; O beautiful mundus! Remember how the fawns were tame To passionless Siddharta’s hand? After the stars upon your brow made nest The adrumbration of your comeliness Was burned into the wall Of Plato’s cave.
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Chloe, Sister of Beatrice
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I. Chloe, sister of Beatrice, Whose lips are lauds and vespers said at once, As gold as evening and as pale, Pure and irenic as the dawn; That misty arabesque of silk Avers itself a glass and veil; Nor Venus new-sprung from the foam Could shock the falcon from its height, Like as that neck, like as that thigh; Once more has Icarus failed in his flight. What mermaid thrid that evening-dress Of pearly green and green turquoise, That makes the earth your night, and you its moon? Whosoever, ‘twas to all men a boon. That slender waist, sweet nymph, could please World-hating Manicheas, And hummingbirds in twos and threes Make secret pilgrimage to the lotus That is your jasmine-clothed bosom; O beautiful mundus! Remember how the fawns were tame To passionless Siddharta’s hand? After the stars upon your brow made nest The adrumbration of your comeliness Was burned into the wall Of Plato’s cave.