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I MADE me a glorious idol,
All fashioned by mortal hands;
And there on its shrined altar
All mute and icy it stands.
The hair is falling in clusters,
And the eye is open to see;
But never a glance nor favoring smile
Has that marble eye for me.
The lips are open for speaking,
And I long for a single word;
I have prayed and besought my idol,
But never an answer have heard.
The smile that I carved in triumph
But mocks me now in scorn,
Yet I bend to my ruthless idol,
Though my heart is bleeding and torn.
And my chisel is lying ruined,
For my dearest hope is gone,
Since I see on my towering altar
But a lifeless idol of stone.
Still I bow in homage lowly,
And beg and entreat in vain
For a loving word or pitying glance
To reward my tedious pain.
Ah! poor are earthly idols,
And paltry is human art, -
Not the noblest hand that ever toiled
Could fashion a woman's heart!
So I tore from the lofty column
My idol fashioned with hands,
And lo! in the place of form of stone
A nobler and fairer stands.
And her blue eye flashes brightly,
While the lips seem about to say:
"Worship the heart, my poor artist,
Not the form of marble or clay."
W. L. C.
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