Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pass the long days by;
But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung, And, weeping loud, about the image clung. “Alas!” he cried, “why have I made thee, then,
That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed;
But these the gods made, and this hand made thee, Who wilt not speak one little word to me.” Then from the image did he draw aback To gaze on it through tears; and you had said,
Regarding it, that little did it lack To be a living and most lovely maid; Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand
Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand; The other held a fair rose over-blown; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now great love had shown
Unto them, something of its sweet surprise, Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed, As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.
Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide;
And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. But when again he turned his visage round
His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, As if some little solace he had found, Although his folly none the more had slept, Rather some new-born, god-sent madness kept
His other madness from destroying him, And made the hope of death wax faint and dim; For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy
He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet Unto the chamber where he used to lie, So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, Unwitting of his woe, they set it down,
Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown. Then to his treasury he went, and sought For gems for its adornment, but all there Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and naught,
Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair. So he, departing, through the streets‘ gan fare, And from the merchants at a mighty cost Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost.
These, then, he hung her senseless neck around, Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, Then cast himself before her on the ground, Praying for grace for all that he had done
In leaving her untended and alone; And still with every hour his madness grew Though all his folly in his heart he knew. At last asleep before her feet he lay,
Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain Returned on him, when with the light of day He woke and wept before her feet again; Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain,
Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore Fresh spoil of flowers his love to lay before. A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid, Was in his house, that he a while ago
At some great man's command had deftly made, And this he now must take and set below Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow About sweet wood, and he must send her thence
The odor of Arabian frankincense. Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, “Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak, But I perchance shall know when I am dead,
If this has been some goddess’ sport, to seek A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak To set her glorious image, so that he, Loving the form of immortality.
“May make much laughter for the gods above: Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee Then take my life away, for I will love Till death unfeared at last shall come to me,
And give me rest, if he of might may be To slay the love of that which cannot die, The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by.” No word, indeed, the moveless image said,
But with the sweet, grave eyes his hands had wrought Still gazed down on his bowed, imploring head; Yet his own words some solace to him brought, Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught
With something like to hope, and all that day Some tender words he ever found to say; And still he felt as something heard him speak; Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes
Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, And read aloud the sweetness hid therein
Of lovers’ sorrows and their tangled sin. And when the sun went down, the frankincense Again upon the altar-flame he cast, That through the open window floating thence
O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed; And so another day was gone at last, And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep, But now for utter weariness must sleep.
But in the night he dreamed that she was gone, And, knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake, And could not, but, forsaken and alone, He seemed to weep as though his heart would break;
And when the night her sleepy veil did take From off the world, waking, his tears he found Still wet upon the pillow all around. Then at the first, bewildered by those tears,
He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept, But suddenly remembering all his fears, Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt; But still its wonted place the image kept,
Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh. Then came the morning offering, and the day, Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet,
From morn, through noon, to evening passed away; And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet, He saw the sun descend the sea to meet; And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept
Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept. But the next morn, e'en while the incense-smoke At sun-rising curled round about her head, Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke
Down in the street, and he by something led, He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid, And through the freshness of the morn must see The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy;
Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, And in their midst upon a car of gold An image of the Mother of Desire, Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old,
Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold, Colored like flame, enwrought with precious things, Most fit to be the prize of striving kings.
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