EIGHTEEN SONNETS,

If Thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race

Of forms divine had ever preached to men!

Lo, I behold thy brow, all glorious then,

( Its reflex dawning on the statue's face )

Bringing its Thought to birth in human grace,

The soul of the grand form, upstarting, when

Thou openest thus thy mysteries to our ken,

Striking a marble window through blind space.

But God, who mouldeth in life-plastic clay,

Flashing his thoughts from men with living eyes,

Not from still marble forms, changeless alway,

Breathed forth his human self in human guise:

Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad,

The son of man, the human, subject God.