Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/73



I am so lonely, God above, Like the pear-tree yonder; Fear and sorrow hand in hand, Through my sad soul wander.

In the pear-tree, God above, At least the birds are singing; While despair and agony Through my soul are ringing.

You pour your sunshine, God above, Over the tree at will; Have you not a single ray, My darkened soul to fill?

All Florence is astir with hum and haste, For Donnatelo’s statue is complete. Beneath a canopy of stony lace That towards the sky projects its daring arch, Behold! St. George stands with his polished shield, The symbol of Florentian liberty; That statue of sublime simplicity To whom its maker gave eternal life, To whom he gave his soul’s unfettered flight, Upon whose brow he wrote heroic deeds.

All through the day, the people mill about, Rejoicing around the gleaming, marble form. Young Donnatelo’s name resounds throughout the town Like music or a triumphant battle song. The air is so suffused with all this praise, That the shouts and words of unrestrained delight Reach high into the sculptor’s darkened room.

There, pale and musing, in his shaded nook, Sits Donnatelo, wrapped in a dark cloak, As if such hollow fame had chilled him through. Yes, every artist suffers martyrdom; For in the secret recess of his heart The worm of doubt relentlessly gnaws on: ’Tis only when the slurs of envy born Spatter with venom the products of his soul,