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.