ALIEN OF THE CENTURIES
IN Paris—in the Louvre where come
The devotees to genius' shrine,
Where is foregathered, piece by piece,
The art that man counts half divine—
You hold your court.
Impassive alien, you look down
Upon your worshippers, and give no sign,
Venus de Milo!
The devotees to genius' shrine,
Where is foregathered, piece by piece,
The art that man counts half divine—
You hold your court.
Impassive alien, you look down
Upon your worshippers, and give no sign,
Venus de Milo!
Whose hope you were, whose dream fulfilled
No living man has known;
What scenes you shared in that dim age
Ere Melos was to brown sand blown
We may not say.
Flotsam from some far century
The world's heart claims you for its own,
Venus de Milo.
No living man has known;
What scenes you shared in that dim age
Ere Melos was to brown sand blown
We may not say.
Flotsam from some far century
The world's heart claims you for its own,
Venus de Milo.
Claims you, although it cannot read
The cryptic scroll of vague unrest,
Nor wake the soul the sculptor hid
Deep in that pallid, pulseless breast;
For mighty love
That wrought you from the shapeless block
Your immortality confessed,
Venus de Milo.
The cryptic scroll of vague unrest,
Nor wake the soul the sculptor hid
Deep in that pallid, pulseless breast;
For mighty love
That wrought you from the shapeless block
Your immortality confessed,
Venus de Milo.
O'er Melos Isle the winds still blow,
Still runs the tide with azure gleams,
Still runs the tide with azure gleams,
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