Page:Records of Woman.pdf/57

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II. It comes,—the power Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower That could not win me love. Yet once again I greet it proudly, with its rushing train Of glorious images:—they throng—they press— A sudden joy lights up my loneliness,— I shall not perish all! The bright work grows Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line, I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows—and now I give my own life's history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light All things are glorified. From thee my wo   Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,