44
The Artist's Search for Beauty.
He strove, each day, to make the infant glad,
And, for such sweet possession, life itself
Must be ennobled. So the years rolled on,
Till one bright day, Francesco, from his toil,
Paused, for an instant, since the playful child,
In frolic mood, had torn the statue's veil;
And, gladdened by the beauty thus revealed,
His eyes the likeness of his mother wore,
The look the marble never had expressed.
With gentle touches, then, Francesco's hand
Guided the chisel, while, with eager haste,
The fleeting semblance sought he to imprint
Upon the statue fair, and soon its eyes
Beamed soft on him with hope and tenderness,
Vision of Angela and Italy,
Embodiment complete of all his thought,
And oft, a happy presence, with soft eyes,
No more reproachful, nor with sad tears stained,
Seemed, in communion sweet, to dwell with him.
And, for such sweet possession, life itself
Must be ennobled. So the years rolled on,
Till one bright day, Francesco, from his toil,
Paused, for an instant, since the playful child,
In frolic mood, had torn the statue's veil;
And, gladdened by the beauty thus revealed,
His eyes the likeness of his mother wore,
The look the marble never had expressed.
With gentle touches, then, Francesco's hand
Guided the chisel, while, with eager haste,
The fleeting semblance sought he to imprint
Upon the statue fair, and soon its eyes
Beamed soft on him with hope and tenderness,
Vision of Angela and Italy,
Embodiment complete of all his thought,
And oft, a happy presence, with soft eyes,
No more reproachful, nor with sad tears stained,
Seemed, in communion sweet, to dwell with him.
