Poems (Spofford)/On the Bust of Charlotte Cushman

by Harriet Prescott Spofford

ON THE BUST OF CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

A secret of the spheres, long hid
 In waiting silence, finds a form,
Where elemental force has bid
 A great serenity out of storm.
  Here all imperial seraph sort,
  And bright ascendencies, have wrought
 And shaped themselves to perfect choice;
  And in full throbs of starry song,
  Wild music of the vast, along
  Whose verge the rolling echoes throng,
 These marble lips might find a voice.

Oh, like some rare and wondrous shell
 Of shifting hues and lustrous dyes,
That takes the sun in every cell
 With colors that eclipse the skies,
  The soul for which the sculptor sought,
  The soul that here the sculptor caught,
 And sealed in stone eternally!
  For never does the shell forget
  The tide with which its lips were wet,
  And far withdrawn it murmurs yet
 The hoary burden of the sea.

And yet the hidden meaning here
 Interprets neither sky nor sea,
Save as they round the earthly sphere
 With kinship of infinity.
  This nature holds the common sod's,
  Holds heaven and sunshine like a god's,
 Touched clay, and only soared the higher!
  Soared like a flame that springs alone
  Into the vast and azure zone;
  And whoso holds the carven stone
 Carries an urn of sacred fire!