Chryselephantine, clear as carven name,
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 sphinx, and fair
As Aphrodite dead, thine image seems—
Guarding for ever, in its golden eyes,
The treasure of intagliate memories.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem