To Madame Jumel

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair, Had I a god's re-animating breath, Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air Lethean and the eyeless halls of death, Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair, Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom, And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom. Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust, Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire; Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust Would light us back to glory and desire, And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust; Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame. Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame. Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould That lies on by-gone traffickings of state, Transformed a moment by that head of gold, Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate; To 'write the Constitution!' 'twere a cold, Dusty and bloomless immortality, Without that last wild dying thought of thee.