PYGMALION. THE POET TO HIS POETRY.

There is no body without its spirit or genius.—Emerson.

Thou art to live; I am watching thee.

I have laid my patient chisel away,

And watch thee somewhat wearily.

How do I know what the mouth will say?

How do I know what the eyes will be,

—What they must be? for I suppose

The brows I made (white brows so blind),

The lovely eyelids that I chose,

Lending my hand to my inner mind,

One certain colour must enclose.

I know not what the voice will sing.

I only made the quiet breast,

And white throat with much labouring.

I only wrought and thought my best,

And lo, a new voice shall out-ring.

26God knows, and knew it, fast locked in

By my own hand, who knew it not.

Have I not made the little chin,

This face and dear mouth, and begot

The voice that needs must tune within?

I am blind, I am deaf, who wrought them so,

Who loved them so. This growing one

Hath her own future there. Ah, woe!

I hardly guess what I have done.

More is gone from me than I know.

I claim the unguessed mysteries

Which make this cold white figure warm.

My life! Child, did I not devise

In dreams thy dreams, carving thy form

—Thy secrets, when I made thine eyes?

God knows. I chiselled each cold limb

With loyal pain. He has given my mind

Less light than my true hand; but dim

Is life. I wait all I shall find,

And all that I shall know, in Him.

27