La Femme Ideale
I love her limpid, clear blue-eyes
and her long, yellow tresses;
wise, and with grace that never dies
or wavers, she blesses.
Behind those intelligent eyes,
she ponders, thinks, and listens;
as I surmise, she feels the rise
of saintliness that christens.
With golden tresses dressed in waves,
spooled, and weaved in sage;
she braves the loathing that enslaves,
assuaging enmity's rage.
Shrewd, wise, and just, she's tolerant,
patient, kind, and compassionate;
and eschews man's Pride, the giant
of deadly sins that's intemperate.
But her existence's all but undone,
for she's more abstract than real:—
that she's only fiction I bemoan,
for she's “la femme idéale.”
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