| |
| HE caught his chisel, hastened to his bench, | |
| And, kneeling on one knee before one more | |
| Pale page of uncarved marble, murmured fast, | |
| “Here will I ask it! here in marble! here | |
| Will I carve well the restless, patient sphinx, | 5 |
| With eyes that burn, though prisoned all the while | |
| In dull, cold stone: what is Life for? what for?” | |
| And he wrought well; but suddenly there came | |
| A tremor and a chill through his right arm. | |
| Turning his face, he saw beside him there | 10 |
| A woman like an angel, or perchance | |
| An angel like a woman; so supreme | |
| The look she bent upon him where she stood, | |
| Silent, superb, and beautiful, that he, | |
| Still holding fast his chisel, stammered forth, | 15 |
| “What art thou? art thou Love?—at last, for me?” | |
| “Not Love,” she answered; “Azron, I am Death!” | |
| “Nay,” and he grasped his chisel firmer still, | |
| “I cannot die! See, I am young! not yet | |
| Have I fulfilled all that is in my soul. | 20 |
| I ask not for dull life of plodding clods | |
| That know not the divine; I ask not life | |
| For a wild round of pleasure or mad deeds; | |
| I ask not love, if it be not for me. | |
| I ask but work! I would but finish this! | 25 |
| If all the thoughts burning within my brain— | |
| Not foolish thoughts, but thoughts for which men wait— | |
| Are to die now unuttered, if my strength | |
| Of will and purpose, of proud energy, | |
| Of eagerness to see but the divine, | 30 |
| And then reveal it to blind, waiting men, | |
| Must perish unexpressed, what is it for?” | |
| “Azron,” the angel answered him, “thy sphinx | |
| Asks, but it answers also; what hast thou | |
| Answered to those who ask of thine own work, | 35 |
| ‘What is it for?’ Didst thou not say to them, | |
| ‘It matters not, so it be beautiful’? | |
| Thy sphinx, with restless eyes that ask, would fain | |
| Question, ‘What is Life for?’ but the proud mouth, | |
| The patient sweetness of the even brows, | 40 |
| The perfect poise of changeless attitude, | |
| The finely modelled cheek, the unparted lips, | |
| Answer, ‘It matters not! it matters not! | |
| If only it be beautiful!’ Nay, this, | |
| Thy greater work, this glorious tomb of thine, | 45 |
| Not for a living woman, but for her, | |
| The sphinx that asks and answers, is it not | |
| A living answer to the living cry? | |
| ‘What is it for?’ they ask; and thou hast said, | |
| ‘It matters not, for it is beautiful.’ | 50 |
| It may be I have secrets to reveal | |
| When thou hast crossed the portal of the dead; | |
| It may be, I have none: it matters not. | |
| Lay each straight marble firm in its white place; | |
| Choose well each burnished gem; let all be fair | 55 |
| And orderly; and then it matters not | |
| What it is for, or when the chisel falls. | |
| Despair not, Azron, thou hast builded well; | |
| But now—ask me no more!—it matters not!” | |
| And Azron’s head sank slowly on his breast, | 60 |
| The chisel fell. | |
| |
