 | Pygmalion |  |
While looking on Ianthe's comely sway
Of body, and her shapely limbs, ofttimes
His spirit sickened hopelessly.
Of body, and her shapely limbs, ofttimes
His spirit sickened hopelessly.
The way
Her large and dainty fingers held the cup
Would make the taste of nectar more divine.
The arched perfection of her supple feet
Might stay the flight of Hermes to be kissed!
These seemed to him as unattainable
As flight of lark singing in deepest blue
To creeping unwinged things. But now, alas!
He could not through her features penetrate
And find the glory which he knew must dwell
In Hebe's brow.
Her large and dainty fingers held the cup
Would make the taste of nectar more divine.
The arched perfection of her supple feet
Might stay the flight of Hermes to be kissed!
These seemed to him as unattainable
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To creeping unwinged things. But now, alas!
He could not through her features penetrate
And find the glory which he knew must dwell
In Hebe's brow.
Perfect was her face.
From dark gray eyes of dawn the gazer's sight
Would tenderly on her pure forehead rest.
Her nostrils breathed a purer air than Earth's;
And the clear curves that marked her drooping mouth
Would seem of discontent, save for the two
Full roses midway kissing. Half distraught,
Remembering how, as from a mystic dream,
He woke and saw Ianthe, as she stood
Holding the wine, believed the splendid gaze
He saw, a remnant of his dream, and not
Ianthe's own, as he thought heretofore.
From dark gray eyes of dawn the gazer's sight
Would tenderly on her pure forehead rest.
Her nostrils breathed a purer air than Earth's;
And the clear curves that marked her drooping mouth
Would seem of discontent, save for the two
Full roses midway kissing. Half distraught,
Remembering how, as from a mystic dream,
He woke and saw Ianthe, as she stood
Holding the wine, believed the splendid gaze
He saw, a remnant of his dream, and not
Ianthe's own, as he thought heretofore.
Awhile at this perplexed, a tremor crept
Upon him, for he feared that never more
That gaze, as at a God, should he behold;
And mayhap, the bright touch of life divine
Be wanting to his Hebe.
Upon him, for he feared that never more
That gaze, as at a God, should he behold;
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Be wanting to his Hebe.
Therefore he,
Having the Maiden's features fashioned true,
Used them no more: but down the inmost depths
His memory could sound sought the lost light
To quicken Hebe's eyes, as though she gazed
At Zeus upon his throne gazing on her.
Having the Maiden's features fashioned true,
Used them no more: but down the inmost depths
His memory could sound sought the lost light
To quicken Hebe's eyes, as though she gazed
At Zeus upon his throne gazing on her.
Now that Ianthe was no longer there
A part of daily labour, sometimes came
The sense of want, or loss, as if the day
Were chill with clouds. The habit had so grown
Of looking to her form for guidance sure,
Often he found himself at gaze upon
The empty platform where she sometime stood
Earnestly bent on giving him all aid.
And when at noon Ianthe came, the clouds
Vanished to nothing in the golden prime.
A part of daily labour, sometimes came
The sense of want, or loss, as if the day
Were chill with clouds. The habit had so grown
Of looking to her form for guidance sure,
Often he found himself at gaze upon
The empty platform where she sometime stood
Earnestly bent on giving him all aid.
And when at noon Ianthe came, the clouds
Vanished to nothing in the golden prime.
| Pygmalion | |