THE CENTAUR (from the French of Maurice de Guérin) POEMS. A SCULPTOR. "A SCULPTOR!" "He left no work to see !" "A genius!" "Wherein might his genius be?" "A dead man!" "Reverence for the dead Must never blind to the truth," ye said. There was That within him which was divine; Though its prison-walls at its yearning cry Ever with patient hand he sought To give its due to his lovely Thought; B And day after day, the story tells, One watcht him ever, with eyes so deep True and patient and strong and kind. The self-same arms had rockt their rest; The woman her life's delight had deem'd But, seeing that she was fair and young, And three days after the burial, Through a dull rain driving slow and small, Wet ground underfoot, grey sky overhead, They walkt to the church and there were wed. |