Pygmalion. the Poet to His Poetry

There is no body without its spirit or genius.—EMERSON.

Thou art to live; I am watching thee. I have laid my patient chisel away, And watch thee somewhat wearily. How do I know what the mouth will say? How do I know what the eyes will be,

—What they must be? for I suppose The brows I made (white brows so blind), The lovely eyelids that I chose, Lending my hand to my inner mind, One certain colour must enclose.

I know not what the voice will sing. I only made the quiet breast, And white throat with much labouring. I only wrought and thought my best, And lo, a new voice shall out-ring.

God knows, and knew it, fast locked in By my own hand, who knew it not. Have I not made the little chin, This face and dear mouth, and begot The voice that needs must tune within?

I am blind, I am deaf, who wrought them so, Who loved them so. This growing one Hath her own future there. Ah, woe! I hardly guess what I have done. More is gone from me than I know.

I claim the unguessed mysteries Which make this cold white figure warm. My life! Child, did I not devise In dreams thy dreams, carving thy form —Thy secrets, when I made thine eyes?

God knows. I chiselled each cold limb With loyal pain. He has given my mind Less light than my true hand; but dim Is life. I wait all I shall find, And all that I shall know, in Him.