To be a happy, attractive woman is impossible.
You must be a painter—so that your face
Brings out, and combines, your kind features with subtle grace.
You must be a poet—so that your voice seems
Not only intelligent, but a cloud of speechless dreams.
You must be a dancer—but your dance
Must move sweetly in every circumstance.
You must be neither too young, nor too old.
You must be modest, but also devilish and bold.
You cannot be clumsy, or rude, or crazy, or any
Of the million, subtle, things which make us ugly!
You cannot be too large, too thin, too spotty, or too small.
You must be able to love, and love one, and if not one, all.
Nothing is more attractive than the attractive which can pine
Madly for one. Attractive love is greater than wealth or wine.
Some cannot love; love is not a casual thing; maybe one loved before,
And cannot love again. If there’s no love, what is attractive for?
The pain, when attractive is attractive—but not for them,
Ruins happiness. Attractive must always worry about them.
Yet the attractive woman has no obligation to love a particular guy,
But if the attractive is attractive to the world’s eye,
The unattractive need to be respectful and aloof,
And let the attractive seek a more complex love,
Not monogamous, private perhaps, or public, practical, difficult,
Who is to say? The happy, attractive woman will harm
Everyone who tends to jealousy, seeing the lucky on her arm.
Finally, attractiveness is always dying.
And what if you, the poet whom she loves, is lying?