I Seek a Form . . .        by Rubn Daro

                    I seek a form that my style cannot discover,
                    a bud of a thought that wants to be a rose;
                    it is heralded by a kiss that is placed on my lips
                    in the impossible embrace of the Venus de Milo.

                    The white peristyle is decorated with green palms;
                    the starts have predicted that I will see the goddess;
                    and the light reposes within my soul like the bird
                    of the moon
reposing on a tranquil lake.

                    And I only find the word that runs away,
                    the melodious introduction that flows from the flute,
                    the ship of dreams that rows through all space,

                    and, under the window of my sleeping beauty,
                    the endless sigh from the waters of the fountain,
                    and the neck of the great white swan, that questions me.