The Lover And The Sculptor

The best of artists hath no thought to show

Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell

Doth not include: to break the marble spell

Is all the hand that serves the brain can do.

The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so

In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable,

Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well

Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low.

Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face,

Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain,

Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny;

Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace

Enclosed together, and my worthless brain

Can draw forth only death to feed on me.