In admiration of your form,
Upon the pedestal where you stand,
The base to make you a statue,
Raised high enough for viewing eyes.
In loving you, I have made art,
I have made a woman of marble.
I love thee, with all thy famous beauty.
Console me, dear one, with all the infamous tragedy.
The fallen tears, down from your cheeks,
Will come to my tongue,
Love and Heaven are twins,
In this rising moment.
I look, and I see,
All the famous beauty.
Behold, before me is a woman of stone,
Of greenish and blueish marble,
Cast by hands that trembled,
Formed by a mind within rivers of fear.
Come find me, if you can,
Shell of a man, that I am.
I speak to me,
Above golden seas,
To see if I can,
See all that I am.
What a man, who cannot even comprehend,
That his sanity has fled,
Far from him.
I see beauty made from stone,
Lips turned from a softness,
To an utter solid.
Life cannot ever stem from her womb.
Life cannot ever make something of itself,
From her bosom,
To gorge itself upon the milk,
That will flow like nectar or honey,
From breasts concealed in thread.
Allow me to realize,
The final graces, of my madness,
My gladness must cease,
Beneath,
All the faiths to this lost world,
For I am one with only my brush;
My hammer;
My pick;
And my brain,
That throbs with echoes so like Poe,
Or Bulwer,
Famed in the agonies of delusion.
Oh, ye famous beauty.
Love has never been of us,
I see no flesh of warmth,
But cold from stone!
Though, I shall form thy hands,
To make you blow a farewell kiss.
Modern Romanticism 