The Idol

I am an idol made of bronze And sit within a silver shrine, Attended by a shaven bonze, In a temple made of serpentine.

I sit thus through the burning day, Through nights of gold-tipped indigo, While at my feet the people pray And lithesome virgins come and go.

But not for me their sidelong glance, As reverently they wave their hands, For watching their religious dance A youthful, blue-eyed shepherd stands.

And I, the idol wrought in bronze, To be that youth of low degree, Would sacrifice my shaven bonze, My temple, my eternity.