"THAN LIFELESS ROCK, THEN, THE RACKED HEART NO MORE..."
Than lifeless rock, then, the racked heart no more
feels in itself, being loveless: dead objective
things, born to no knowledge; wings hewn but never active.
So do insentient springs coil outwards; mere
fact that stands by witness - the whiteness of
hands; or the heart that knew not it lacked love.
Self is a function: so the sylph in stone,
spiritless, yet had perfection - dumb
because thoughtless - that no thought became.
And so your beauty was Pygmalion:
for when you gave me being, why afterwards
give this desire that soars but has no words?