A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sonnet (Joséphin Soulary)

For works with similar titles, see Sonnet.


For days, weeks, months, and long wearisome years,
The sculptor has used his art on the clay,
Touched and retouched the shape:—toil thrown away!
Heavy, stiff, awkward, still—still it appears.
A young apprentice who a vexed mien fears,
Laughing in secret, dares at last to say,
'A toy's my forte,—oh, let me try, sir, pray;
I have a knack.' Content the master hears.
The boy takes up the tool. O strange surprise!
Sudden the figure in the sculptor's view
Takes lines of beauty; gleam the glorious eyes,
And heaves the breast! 'It lives now, sir; adieu!
My name is Love—remember me a little,
And guard your treasure, for, though fair, 'tis brittle.'