...
a song of hyperbole composed for Margarite Matisse, the Belovéd.
Perfection Thou art for I can see no fault.
Thou art Phrene to my Praxiteles,
The One who fulfills all of my ideals.
There is no way to overstate,
And no way to exaggerate,
Against all backgrounds, Thou art my gestalt.
I swear it is not purple puffery,
Nor cocky musical affrontery.
My throat lets loose like the bird bul-bul
To show you how I’m aching full so full
To beguile Thee in the desert summer’s dusk
As sweetly as the violet rose’s musk.