The Sculptor
This is my statue: cold and white
It stands and takes the morning light!
The world may flout my hopes and fears,
Yet was my life’s work washed with tears
Of blood when this poor hand last night
Finished the pain of years.
Speak for me, patient lips of stone,
Blind eyes my lips have rested on
So often when the o’er-weary brain
Would grope to human love again,
And found this grave cold mask alone
And the tears fell like rain.
Ay; is this all? Is this the brow
I fondled, never wondering how
It lived—the face of pain and bliss
That through the marble met my kiss?
Oh, though the whole world praise it now,
Let no man dream it is!
They blame; they cannot blame aright
Who never knew what infinite
Deep loss must shame me most of all!
They praise; like earth their praises fall
Into a tomb. The hour of light
Is flown beyond recall.
Yet have I seen, yet have I known,
And oh, not tombed in cold white stone
The dream I lose on earth below;
And I shall come with face aglow
And find and claim it for my own
Before God’s throne, I know.