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.