Tuesday, June 26, 2007

To vein her brow’s pallor, delicate,
Japan has granted its clearest blue;
The white porcelain is of white less true
Than her lucent neck, her temples of agate;

In her moist eye gleams a gentle light;
The nightingale’s voice is harsher yet,
And, when she rises in our dark night,
We praise the moon in a cloudy dress;

Her silver eyes, burnished, move fluidly;
Caprice has pointed her pert little nose;
Her mouth has the red of raspberry, peach;

Her movements flow with a Chinese flow,
And beside her one breathes from her beauty
Something sweet, like the fragrance of tea.

Théophile Gautier (1811-1872)