GALATEA.
Cold, sculptured form, with downcast eye and face,
Whose quiet calm no throb of life doth know,
Sealed in thy marble stillness thou dost show
No light of joy nor sorrow's darker trace,
Till, warmed by love, from pedestal's high place,
Thou steppest to Pygmalion's side below,
A peerless woman, rosy in the glow
Of wondrous beauty and surpassing grace;
Thy gentle spirit, innocent of art,
Meeteth rude welcoming from baser minds,
And greetings harsh at length are thine alone.
So, wounded, like the stricken fawn, thy heart
Its fairest dreams unreal illusions finds,
And, chilled, for refuge, turns again to stone!
Whose quiet calm no throb of life doth know,
Sealed in thy marble stillness thou dost show
No light of joy nor sorrow's darker trace,
Till, warmed by love, from pedestal's high place,
Thou steppest to Pygmalion's side below,
A peerless woman, rosy in the glow
Of wondrous beauty and surpassing grace;
Thy gentle spirit, innocent of art,
Meeteth rude welcoming from baser minds,
And greetings harsh at length are thine alone.
So, wounded, like the stricken fawn, thy heart
Its fairest dreams unreal illusions finds,
And, chilled, for refuge, turns again to stone!