In Praise of Sculptors Before the Idol
Tho’ ashen’s the face and stone’s the silence
–
Perfect to the orbs of iris fluted –
The locks that cure from a tussled violence
Abet what thoughts through lips of marble muted
Speak.
Tho’ rooted are the legs with polished weight
And sure the toes above their churning spray,
The will’s revealed as much by form as fate
When leapt from death they even on this day
Dance.
Tho’ still’s the chest that squares to precision –
Unseen lungs their vital viscers crowning –
Let no one doubt what swims in Elysian
Doth e’er beyond its destiny’s drowning
Breathe.
Antinous,
Thou speak to me in quietude;
Thou dance to me in chains;
Thou breathe to me releases;
Thy living marble reigns.
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