Huge and half-shaped, like a block
Chosen for sarcophagus
By a Pharaoh glorious,
One rude solitary rock.
Cleave it down along the ridge
With a fissure yawning deep
To the heart of the hard heap,
Like the rent of riving wedge.
Through the cleft let hands appear,
Upward pointed with pressed palms
As if raised in silent psalms
For salvation come anear.
Turn thee now—'tis almost done!—
To the near horizon's verge:
Make the smallest arc emerge
Of the forehead of the sun.
One thing more—I ask too much!—
From a brow which hope makes brave
Sweep the shadow of the grave
With a single golden touch.
Thanks, dear painter; that is all.
If thy picture one day should
Need some words to make it good,
I am ready to thy call.
AFTER AN OLD LEGEND.
The monk was praying in his cell,
With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
For two long hours and more.
As of themselves, all suddenly,
His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
A man's feet close beside;
And almost to the feet came down
A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
In countries round about!