Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/45

 PYGMALION.

THE POET TO HIS POETRY.

There is no body without its spirit or genius.—.

art to live; I am watching thee.

I have laid my patient chisel away,

And watch thee somewhat wearily.

How do I know what the mouth will say?

How do I know what the eyes will be,

—What they must be? for I suppose

The brows I made (white brows so blind),

The lovely eyelids that I chose,

Lending my hand to my inner mind,

One certain colour must enclose.

I know not what the voice will sing.

I only made the quiet breast,

And white throat with much labouring.

I only wrought and thought my best,

And lo, a new voice shall out-ring.