I know not if be the memory of art
So longed for down the centuries
Some other beauty, or the heart’s delight
A vision bright of famed dreams passed down
That presence which so strangely rose
From waters of our vision’s soul
To all the beautiful women of antiquity
Beauty is a name that oft does come again!
This world has etched and moulded
To her love’s fitting, she is more ancient
Than the rocks and flowers of desire
I know not if be the memory of love
Trained to create again the learned
Secret of her fantastic muse, spiritual ambition
Imaginative loves, all eyelids upon
The flesh of art, so expressive and subtle
That fancy of perpetual life, always young
Certainly Lady Lisa hath symbols to prove
A bitter-sweet sway of mischief bred
That leaves new healing to old wounds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem