AMY
K .
CLARKE .
* THE
“ VENUS
DE
MILO ."
The
SCULPTOR
SPEAKS.
N
OTHING
of
strange , or
exquisite , or rare ,
No tortured
limbs, or godlike
pose ,
for
me
.
Doubtless
their
work
was good
;
I
found
it
fair
But knew
my masters
—
and
I
let
them
be
.
I
wrought
unbidden
,
without hope
of
fame
,
Such
simple
work
as
our
plain
fathers
knew
,
Content
with
little honour
,
and
a
name
Unlauded
.
Thus my patience
reaps
its
due
;
A
woman
,
weary
from
the
vineyard
,
rests
Her laden
basket
on
the
plinth
,
and now
Before my Aphrodite
stays
and
sighs
,
Something
of
Woman
finding
in
the
breasts
I
made
adoring
—
on
the
eternal
brow
Strong
contemplation
,
as
of
seaward
eyes
.
*"
VISION
OF
HIM
.”
THROUGH
the Uncreated
,
Unfelt
,
Untrod
,
Breathed
for
a
moment
Sorrow
of
God
.