Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/204

Rh But soft!—a ‘poet’ is a word soon said; A book’s a thing soon written. Nay, indeed, The more the poet shall be questionable, The more unquestionably comes his book! And this of mine,—well, granting to myself Some passion in it, furrowing up the flats, Mere passion will not prove a volume worth Its gall and rags even. Bubbles round a keel Mean nought, excepting that the vessel moves. There’s more than passion goes to make a man, Or book, which is a man too. I am sad: I wonder if Pygmalion had these doubts, And, feeling the hard marble first relent, Grow supple to the straining of his arms, And tingle through its cold to his burning lip, Supposed his senses mocked, and that the toil Of stretching past the known and seen, to reach The archetypal Beauty out of sight, Had made his heart beat fast enough for two, And with his own life dazed and blinded him! Not so; Pygmalion loved,—and whoso loves Believes the impossible. And I am sad: I cannot thoroughly love a work of mine, Since none seems worthy of my thought and hope More highly mated. He has shot them down, My Phoebus Apollo, soul within my soul, Who judges by the attempted, what’s attained, And with the silver arrow from his height,