Tell me, dear men: have you e’er known a beaut
That blinds the eye in ways light can’t refute?
Such a perfection rests in starry passion
That strikes to sleep the glare of ugliness
That sharpens itself to critical fashion.
‘Tis eyes deceived that mayth perceive a visage
As vividly divine or hideous
To glamor’s glory, coined like golden prisage
To hounds that hunger viands while invidious.
But fools refuse believing that such harmony
Is beauty’s light, and only beauty’s bliss
Is found within without another’s glee.
Let all these written words give way in spell
With ancient romance spoken: tu es belle.