4603990Poems — A statueRose Terry Cooke
A STATUE.
     Dream divine and tender,
      Frozen into stone;
     Pall nor purple splendor
      Round thy grace is thrown;
Thou standest like a star, clothed in thy light alone.

     Silent with the passion
      Of thy new despair;
     In the spotless fashion
      That all angels wear;
Like softly falling snow thy presence fills the air.

     On thy lips half-parted,
      Sleeps a dreaming sigh;
     Love and hope departed
      Droop' thy pensive eye;
And anguish on thy brow hath set her majesty.

     Neither shame nor madness
      Touch thy spirit pure;
     Regally hath sadness
      Taught thee to endure;
Earth passes at thy feet, but heaven is ever sure.

     Like the languid tolling
      Of a funeral bell,
     Or the awful rolling
      Of the ocean's swell,
Thou stillest sound with awe, through power's sublimest spell.

     In what holy vision
      Of a midnight moon,
     Did thy shape Elysian
      Rise, like some sad tune,
Through the rapt sculptor's soul, and turn his night to noon?

     Utter thus forever,
      With resistless tongue,
     Higher thought than ever
      Bird or breeze hath sung;
For Beauty never dies, and Grace is ever young.