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.