IN FRENCH FIELDS.
227
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.'
