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 last
A boon denied to me,
Rest in the ever-restless,
The huge, unquiet sea,
That the brain may be freed from toil
Which has toiled to a luckless end
When it touched its highest powers
And shaped my milk-white friend.