To A Creole Lady

In a perfumed land caressed by the sun I found, beneath the trees' crimson canopy, palms from which languor pours on one's eyes, the veiled charms of a Creole lady. Her hue pale, but warm, a dark-haired enchantress, she shows in her neck's poise the noblest of manners: slender and tall, she strides by like a huntress, tranquil her smile, her eyes full of assurance. If you traveled, my Lady, to the land of true glory, the banks of the Seine, or green Loire, a Beauty worthy of gracing the manors of olden days, you'd inspire, among arbours' shadowy secrets, a thousand sonnets in the hearts of the poets, whom, more than your blacks, your vast eyes would enslave.