Classic Poem

They were to be the fairest ever known
In the sphere of unstain'd Art, and to hold the high, far places
Among the shapes of Beauty born of stone,
With divinest lift of wings and divinest calm of faces.

The sculptor started backward with a cry,
And he pass'd across his eyes his piteous, worn hands slowly:—
Was this his great white vision from the sky,
Standing palpable in marble, yet all radiant and holy?

He saw his days, his nights, his passions there,
And his strength—a giant image that seem'd wrestling with its stillness—
Imprison'd in one wide hush of despair,
At the feet of Fallen Angels, staring back with empty chillness!