Thou troublest me, thou troublest me!
A thousand years unused to speech,
Why should the charm dissolve for thee,
Or why to thee my secret teach?
Not Paros, nor Pentelicus,
E’er held me in its quarried hill;
Nor master’s chisel carved me thus,
With lofty thought and patient skill.
Ah, surely, not Pygmalion’s hand
Unprisoned me, through loving art—