To Cleo de Merode

Why is it, child, you choose to wear
That artful 1830 air
Of artlessness made artifice?
To lure all lips to long to kiss
The saint-like halo of your hair?

" I am the spirit of a fan.
Ah, once, what wanton breezes ran
Across my silk and ivory!
As a fan's breath is life to me,
I have no heart for any man.

" As a fan fluttered by a wrist,
Bright lips that now are dust have kissed,
I waken, out of other hours,
The phantoms of forgotten flowers
That hold me to a phantom tryst.

" If these calm eyes, if that pure cheek,
If this soft haloed hair, could speak
The false, fantastic, final truth,
In some remote, remembered youth
I loved Gavarni for a week. "