26
The Sculptor's Reverie.
Is the opening of that chamber, Whence deep mysteries of thoughtStand embodied, moving, living— Still companions, though unsought?
Then soft clouds came floating o'er me, Took the forms of answered prayer,And the mist that rolled before me, Swept my sorrows into air.
For sweet groups of angel faces, Pitying faces bent to see,—These were holy aspirations, That had ne'er forsaken me.
Did I say that I was dreaming? Did I say this all before?That I entered guest unbidden Through my own soul's open door?
There to see these living sculptures, Every thought embodied there,Ne'er to perish, good and evil, Beautiful, and false, and fair.
