Marble
I'd wake you,
marble maiden fashioned
by my hand
from willing stone,
but the power of the spirit
none may have but God,
and God alone.
Work of man,
by skill ensculpted,
may you be a higher thing,
will and reason
be your blessing
down from heaven's endless ring.
A breathing form
of sweet spiration
you have come to me
in dreams;
as if softly sighing
your face to vision seems.
May it be, and be so real,
but, ah! I worry,
if inspired turns your kiss,
that I should then expire
from a storm of fatal bliss!
