Aspasia
At times thy image to my mind returns,
Aspasia. In the crowded streets it gleams
Upon me, for an instant, as I pass,
In other faces; or in lonely fields,
At noon-tide bright, beneath the silent stars,
With sudden and with startling vividness,
As if awakened by sweet harmony,
The splendid vision rises in my soul.
How worshipped once, ye gods, what a delight
To me, what torture, too! Nor do I e'er
The odor of the flowery fields inhale,
Or perfume of the gardens of the town,
That I recall thee not, as on that day,
When in thy sumptuous rooms, so redolent
Of all the fragrant flowers of the spring,
Arrayed in robe of violet hue, thy form
Angelic I beheld, as it reclined
On dainty cushions languidly, and by
An atmosphere voluptuous surrounded;
When thou, a skilful Syren, didst imprint
Upon thy children's round and rosy lips
Resounding, fervent kisses, stretching forth
Thy neck of snow, and with thy lovely hand,
The little, unsuspecting innocents
Didst to thy hidden, tempting bosom press.
The earth, the heavens transfigured seemed to me,
A ray divine to penetrate my soul.
Then in my side, not unprotected quite,
Deep driven by thy hand, the shaft I bore,
Lamenting sore; and not to be removed,
Till twice the sun his annual round had made.
A ray divine, O lady! to my thought
Thy beauty seemed. A like effect is oft
By beauty caused, and harmony, that seem
The mystery of Elysium to reveal.
The stricken mortal fondly worships, then,
His own ideal, creature of his mind,
Which of his heaven the greater part contains.
Alike in looks, in manners, and in speech,
The real and ideal seem to him,
In his confused and passion-guided soul.
But not the woman, but the dream it is,
That in his fond caresses, he adores.
At last his error finding, and the sad exchange,
He is enraged, and most unjustly, oft,
The woman chides. For rarely does the mind
Of woman to that high ideal rise;
And that which her own beauty oft inspires
In generous lovers, she imagines not,
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poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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