THE IDEAL

by: Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

t could ne'er be those beauties of ivory vignettes;

The varied display of a worthless age,

Nor puppet-like figures with castonets,

That ever an heart like mine could engage.




I leave to Gavarni, that poet of chlorosis,

His hospital-beauties in troups that whirl,

For I cannot discover amid his pale roses

A flower to resemble my scarlet ideal.




Since, what for this fathomless heart I require

Is—Lady Macbeth you! in crime so dire;

—An Æschylus dream transposed from the South—




Or thee, oh great "Night" of Michael-Angelo born,

Who so calmly thy limbs in strange posture hath drawn,

Whose allurements are framed for a Titan's mouth.

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