When sculptor's art transforms it into life—
That erst were soulless marble, still and poor
To mirror forth our hope or joy or strife!
In lines keen-cut! Yea, on my living heart,
(That slumbered 'neath its veil of seeming death),
Thou tracest characters full bold and deep,
And breathest now with life-inspiring breath!
Thus was Love born! To me, who deemed it cast
Behind me!—with the shadows and the blight
That fell on trusting heart and life and home,