Poems (Commelin)/Galatea
GALATEA.
Cold, sculptured form, with downcast eye and face,Whose quiet calm no throb of life doth know,Sealed in thy marble stillness thou dost showNo light of joy nor sorrow's darker trace,Till, warmed by love, from pedestal's high place,Thou steppest to Pygmalion's side below,A peerless woman, rosy in the glowOf wondrous beauty and surpassing grace;Thy gentle spirit, innocent of art,Meeteth rude welcoming from baser minds,And greetings harsh at length are thine alone.So, wounded, like the stricken fawn, thy heartIts fairest dreams unreal illusions finds,And, chilled, for refuge, turns again to stone!