Like poor Ophelia, pale, Murillo-fair,
The beauteous one, whose love once fired my brain,
Roams thro' my dwelling, silent and insane;
In the blond splendor of her tangled hair,

Unconciously she bares the round and rare
Carrara of her breast without a stain,
While I, who of her beauty am still vain,
Smile grimly at her dull and vacant stare.

When, like an amorous cat, she towards me bounds,
I love to see her, warm with wanton fire,
Invent endearments new in bizarre wise;
And when she lisps odd, idiotic sounds,
To watch the inferno of her strange desire
Gleam weirdly in her colorless dull eyes!