The light of whose being went and came
As the artist paused from work, or bent
His whole heart to it with firm intent.
. . . . . .
Husband, why sit you ever alone,
Carving your Christ from the ivory bone?
O, carve, I pray you, some fairy ships,
Or rings for the weaning infant’s lips,
Or toys for yon princely boy who stands
Knee-deep in the bloom of his father’s lands.