A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems | Page 8

capered along the street.?A boy whose shadow was mocked at?By the children passing along,?Straight and tall and beautiful,?Happy with laughter and song.?So, he envied their beauty....?He who was crooked and brown....?The strong youths of the mountain,?The white girls of the town,?Envied their happy meetings?And the tender words they spoke?In the shadow of the temples,?Under the groves of oak.?And his lonely heart was stricken?That never his lot might be?To walk with a maid who loved him....?So quaint and crooked was he.
II
Thus was my heart once stricken?And I repined for a while,?I but a boy in years,?Who longed for a maiden's smile.?Till once on a day in summer?My soul was touched with a gleam,?And I woke from my morbid fancies?Like one from an evil dream,?And knew that the gods in their wisdom?Had made and set me apart.?Lean, misshapen, and ugly....?No toy for a maiden's heart.?And I felt with a heart awakened?That leapt in a riot of joy,?The heart of a wise man and proud?Not the heart of a moody boy.?Viewing the old things anew?With an inner wonder in each:?The cloud ships driven thro' heaven,?The sea rolling into the beach,?The magic heart of the woodland,?The loves of nymph and faun,?The splendour of starlight nights,?The calm inviolate dawn.
III
Thus was my spirit quickened,?And once on a lucky day?I drew a bird on plaster,?And modelled a horse in clay;?Kneeling under a wall?Where a shadow fell on the street,?Eyes and mind intent?In the midst of the noonday heat.?Eyes and mind intent....?And a stranger passed my way,?... The shadow grew and lengthened?As he stopped to watch my play.?He looked at the little horse,?He looked at the winging bird;?And ere I noticed his presence?He touched me and spoke a word:?"Hast thou the mind and will?As thou hast hand and sight...??Follow me if thou hast?And climb ... oh! climb to the height."
IV
So I followed him to his workshop?And stayed there a year and a year?Working under a master?Who praised me and held me dear,?Till at last a day arose?When, taking my hand in his own,?"You have my knowledge," he said,?"And now you must stand alone."?And tho' I sorrowed to leave him?My heart was ready to sing,?So first in praise of the gods?I made for an offering?(Even as does a shepherd?His rustic altar of sods)?Bright forms larger than human?As mortals dream of the gods.?Then, in my strange world-worship,?The Tritons, Lords of the Sea,?The creatures which haunt the woodland,?Happy and shy and free,?Nymphs and satyrs and fauns?Who worship the great god Pan,?And lastly the mighty heroes?Who fashion the mind of man.
V
Thus thought I and thus wrought I,?And my power grew greater still.?I rose to the heights of passion?And sounded the depths of will,?Reaching out to the farthest?Winnowing down to the last,?Gazing into the future?And diving into the past.?Higher and ever higher?Like an eagle soared my art?And I praised the most high gods?Who made and set me apart.?And Prince and poet and painter?Travelled to touch my hand,?The minds which had toiled and suffered,?The minds which could understand,?Marvelling in my workshop?At the shining forms they saw....?The children of my spirit?Born of a higher law.
VI
But last on a day in summer?(An evil day it seems)?I thought, "I will fashion a woman?As I have seen in dreams.?I, who never loved woman?That breathed and spoke and moved,?Will fashion a noble statue?To show what I could have loved;?A glorious naked figure?Untouched by time or fate,?A symbol of all that might be?And she shall be my mate.?Not mate of my crooked body,?Lean, misshapen and brown,?(No longer I feared my shadow?But walked a prince in the town)?But mate for my glorious spirit?Winging thro' shimmering heights,?On the viewless pinions of fancy?Where none can follow its flights."?Thus was I moved in spirit?And wrought, a happy slave,?Striving to make the best?Of the gifts the high gods gave,?Fashioning out of the marble,?--And I knew my work was good--?The arms and the breasts and the thighs?And the glory of womanhood.
VII
Lo! the statue is finished.?Look how it stands serene?A woman with tender smile?And proud eyes of a queen!?Lo! the statue is perfect....?Flower and crown of my life....?I who never loved woman?Could take this woman for wife....?Her, my Galatea,?My wonderful milk-white friend,?Work of my hand and brain?Linked to this noble end.
VIII
The statue stands above me,?Flower and crown of my art....?But would that the gods had made me?As others, not set me apart.?For what, in the measure of life,?Is work on a lower plane??And this the finest, brightest--?Further I cannot attain.?Shall I grind its beauty to fragments?Or shatter its symmetry?--?For I have made it in secret?And none has seen it but me.?My hand would falter and fail--?Oh! ... I could not forget.?I still should see it in dreams?With a passion of regret.?Or ... Shall I wait till morning?White-winged over the land,?Ere the fishermen tramp the beach?And drag their boats to the sand;?And find at last ... oh! at