The entrance to a buried shrine;
The rocks around a shudder gave
As thence I bore my prize divine.
What master wrought thee long ago—
Who but Pygmalion’s scholar apt?
The rose upon thy cheek of snow
Ofttimes he saw in vision rapt.
The day upspringing in thine eye
He fancied now, and now it seemed
A hovering smile, a gradual sigh,