The Sculptor

With joy he set upon the stone
Releasing from its marble tomb
The likeness of a lovely maid
Whose grandeur filled the humble room.
What hapless rock this used to be,
Half-figured now, she seemed a god:
The more his chisel carved her shape,
The more her beauty went unflawed.
Then sudden in full figure came
The stunning sight he longed to see,
But what he saw he wouldn't dare—
'Twas woman's flesh, alive as he!

Astonished, he implored her name,
Yet from her lips came no reply.
Then crouching cautious by her frame,
He dared and touched the maiden's thigh.
'Tis marble, smooth but hard as flint—
Transfixed her gaze looked softly on.
In frozen silence there she stood ...
His heart to her now deeply drawn.
He scanned again her eyes, her face,
And still she seemed to him so real:
Her lips and locks and tender looks,
Showed living flesh despite the feel.

"O God, forbid I be deceived,
Or taste delusion's lying fruit,
But how alive to me is she
Who stands before me still and mute?"
In desperation now he prayed
The frozen maiden's quick release—
And not for him, but for her sake,
That she might wake and go in peace.
He feared his craft imprisoned her
And fell before her sad, dismayed ...
Then slumber filled his teary eyes,
Which closed beside the thing he made.

Within a haze of cloud and dream
A tender voice spoke thankfully:
"An ancient curse had trapped me here,
But you, my savior, set me free!"
She bade him peace and blessed his Muse,
Then kissed her hero on his brow,
And as he woke the maid was gone ...
Amazed, he sat there lonely now.
But soon elation filled his heart—
For she is free and dwells in peace.
And now he sculpts remembering
His love for art and her release.