| I love the thought of those old naked days When Phoebus gilded torsos with his rays, When men and women sported, strong and fleet, Without anxiety or base deceit, And heaven caressed them, amorously keen To prove the health of each superb machine. Cybele then was lavish of her guerdon And did not find her sons too gross a burden: But, like a she-wolf, in her love great-hearted, Her full brown teats to all the world imparted. Bold, handsome, strong, Man, rightly, might evince Pride in the glories that proclaimed him prince— Fruits pure of outrage, by the blight unsmitten, With firm, smooth flesh that cried out to be bitten. Today the Poet, when he would assess Those native splendours in the nakedness Of man or woman, feels a sombre chill Enveloping his spirit and his will. He meets a gloomy picture, which he loathes, Wherein deformity cries out for clothes. Oh comic runts! Oh horror of burlesque! Lank, flabby, skewed, pot-bellied, and grotesque! Whom their smug god, Utility (poor brats!) Has swaddled in his brazen clouts “ersatz” As with cheap tinsel. Women tallow-pale, Both gnawed and nourished by debauch, who trail The heavy burden of maternal vice, Or of fecundity the hideous price. We have (corrupted nations) it is true Beauties the ancient people never knew— Sad faces gnawed by cancers of the heart And charms which morbid lassitudes impart. But these inventions of our tardy muse Can’t force our ailing peoples to refuse Just tribute to the holiness of youth With its straightforward mien, its forehead couth, The limpid gaze, like running water bright, Diffusing, careless, through all things, like the light Of azure skies, the birds, the winds, the flowers, The songs, and perfumes, and heart-warming powers. |
