She saw him from a distance,

And loved him with her eyes.

She turned her back and couldn’t see,

Yet sketched him rough for size.


She wet her clay with spittle,

And shaped him with her hands,

And poured him like a bottle

Of sediment and sands.


She placed him in the oven,

And baked him in the heat,

And all the while she rubbed her hands,

Near falling off her seat.


She stood him on a plinth,

And painted him in gold.

She couldn’t take her eyes away

From his shining dying mould.


She stroked him with her fingernail,

And polished with a cloth,

Till clear as glass he glittered now;

And thus she made her troth;


And brought the statue closer,

So it eclipsed his truth:

Brighter than the man himself—

To drive her mad, forsooth.

The End

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