Classic Poem

'Tis done, the work is finished — that last touch
Was as a God's! Lo! now it stands before me,
Even as long years ago I dreamed of it,
Consummate offspring of consummate art;
Ideal form itself! Ye Gods, I thank you,
That I have lived to this: for this thrown off
The pleasure of my kind; for this have toiled
Days, nights, months, years; — am not I recompensed?
Who says an artist's life is not a king's?
I am a king, alone among the crowd
Of busy hearts and looks — apart with nature
I sit, a God upon the earth, creating
More lovely forms than flesh and blood can equal.
Jove's workmanship is perishable clay,
But mine immortal marble; when the proudest
Of our fair city dames is laid i' the dust
This creature of my soul will still be lovely.
Let me contemplate thee again. That lip —
How near it wears the crimson! and that eye —
How strives it with the marble's vacancy!
Methinks if thou wert human, I could love thee;
But that thou art not, nor wilt ever be —
Ne'er know and feel how beautiful thou art.
O God, I am alone then — she hears not —
And yet how like to life! Ha — blessed thought,
Gods have heard prayers ere now, Hear me, bright Venus,
Queen of my dreams, hear from thy throne of light,
Forgive the pride that made my human heart
Forget its nature. Let her live and love!
I dare not look again — my brain swims round —
I dream — I dream — even now methought she moved —
If 'tis a dream, how will I curse the dawn
That wakes me from it! There — that bend again —
It is no dream — Oh, speak to me and bless me.