With that he turned, and towards the city gate
Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came,
And cast his heart into the hands of fate;
Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame
That strange and strong desire without a name;
Till panting, thinking of naught else, once more
His hand was on the latch of his own door.
One moment there he lingered, as he said,
"Alas! what should I do if she were gone?"
But even with that word his brow waxed red
To hear his own lips name a thing of stone,
As though the gods some marvel there had done,
And made his work alive; and therewithal,
In turn, great pallor on his face did fall.
But with a sigh he passed into the house;
Yet even then his chamber door must hold,
And listen there, half blind and timorous,
Until his heart should wax a little bold;
Then, entering, motionless and white and cold,
He saw the image stand amidst the floor
That whitened was by labor done before.
The Heart Desires
Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught,
And, drawing near and sighing, tenderly
Upon the marvel of the face he wrought,
E'en as he used to pass the long days by;
But his sighs changed to sobbing presently,
And on the floor the useless steel he flung,
And, weeping loud, about the image clung.
"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee, then,
That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed
That many such as thou are loved of men,
Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead
Into their net, and smile to see them bleed;
But these the gods made, and this hand made thee,
Who wilt not speak one little word to me."