"It will never be those theater beauties,
Corrupt products of a worthless century,
Those feet shod in buskins, those fingers holding castanets,
Who will satisfy a heart like my own.I leave to Gavarni, the poet of chlorosis,
His babbling flock of hospital beauties,
For I cannot find among those pale roses
A flower that ressembles my red ideal.
What this heart, as deep as an abyss, needs
Is you, Lady Macbeth, a soul powerful in crime,
A dream of Aeschylus blooming in a climate of south winds;
Or rather you, great Night, daughter of Michelangelo,Who peacefully twists into a strange pose
Those feminine charms fashioned in the mouths of the Titans!"