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Rh And now what is it that has come to pass?

Each of the gods, perfect

Cries out from a perfect throat:

You are useless;

No marble can bind me

No stone suggest.

They have melted into the light

And I am desolate.

They have melted

Each from his plinth,

Each one departs.

They have gone:

What agony can express my grief?

Each from his marble base

Has stepped into the light

And my work is for naught."

And after this, though before the passage occurs in the poem, the bereaved sculptor enters on an agony of interpretation.

Or again—

The question debated would seem to be whether he was the power which created those gods or whether he himself had been made by the power which took them away. Is he himself the god? "or is this arrogance?" or are they, his handiwork, the power that shapes him unperceived? But although most of it is pregnant with splendid suggestions, I can make neither head nor tail of it as it stands. Now what I have quoted is grander poetry than anything Rh