O PHRYNE, when I gaze on thee, Then on my marble I despair. Then through my being steals a glow; Then well I know that had my hand But half the cunning of mine eye, I'd shape, from cold unfeeling stone, A form to make time yet unborn Before the sculptor's power bow down. Then in the madness of a dream I feel the stone grow into life. I shape the curves of that fair arm, And dare not think the living hand Hath dallied with my hair. I feel my breath come hot and quick, As, with thy dainty foot in view, I cut the stone, and it is cold; The living foot—on which I dared, One day, in lover's transport wild, To press my eager lip aflame— Was throbbing, warm and soft. And oh, the beauty of the face That mocks my vaunted skill! Alone, and gazing on my work, As artists love to gaze, I kneel,—but, Phryne, not to thee,— I kneel to ask the listening gods To give new cunning to my hand To shape thy counterfeit. When they, propitious to my prayer, Have let me shape thy glowing lips Till only speech is wanting there,— To catch the flying dimples' grace, The partial glory of thy smile,— Alas! I know I'm but a man; For I could find it in my heart To dash the stone to shapeless bits, Than that another eye than mine Should gaze upon the marble form That images thy beauty.
Yet, Phryne, I deserve of thee More than thine other lovers claim. They do but bring thee yellow gold, And pour it down beneath thy feet; I mantle thee with warmest love, And day by day prepare for thee Immortal and a glorious fame. Their love is wrought upon the air; Mine in the everlasting stone. And yet I'd give the hard-won fame The sunny years have brought to me, The skill the gods have given,— Yes, all I have, my wayward Love (Alas, and other men's beloved!)— Wert thou again the fisher-maid On Thespia's shore; and I the lad, Who roved the restless sea by day, But at the eventide returned Unto my cot, my babes, and thee.
