Preludes (Meynell)/Pygmalion
PYGMALION.
THE POET TO HIS POETRY.
There is no body without its spirit or genius.—Emerson.
Thou art to live; I am watching thee.
I have laid my patient chisel away,
And watch thee somewhat wearily.
How do I know what the mouth will say?
How do I know what the eyes will be,
—What they must be? for I suppose
The brows I made (white brows so blind),
The lovely eyelids that I chose,
Lending my hand to my inner mind,
One certain colour must enclose.
I know not what the voice will sing.
I only made the quiet breast,
And white throat with much labouring.
I only wrought and thought my best,
And lo, a new voice shall out-ring.
God knows, and knew it, fast locked in
By my own hand, who knew it not.
Have I not made the little chin,
This face and dear mouth, and begot
The voice that needs must tune within?
I am blind, I am deaf, who wrought them so,
Who loved them so. This growing one
Hath her own future there. Ah, woe!
I hardly guess what I have done.
More is gone from me than I know.
I claim the unguessed mysteries
Which make this cold white figure warm.
My life! Child, did I not devise
In dreams thy dreams, carving thy form
—Thy secrets, when I made thine eyes?
God knows. I chiselled each cold limb
With loyal pain. He has given my mind
Less light than my true hand; but dim
Is life. I wait all I shall find,
And all that I shall know, in Him.