Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, I thank thee that my prayer was not for naught; Truly a present helper hast thou been To those who faithfully thy throne have sought! Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought, Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me, That I thine happy slave henceforth may be?" [Illustration: T]hus to his chamber at the last he came, And, pushing through the still half-opened door, He stood within; but there, for very shame Of all the things that he had done before, Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, Thinking of all that he had done and said Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air; So gaining courage, did he raise his face Unto the work his hands had made so fair, And cried aloud to see the niche all bare Of that sweet form, while through his heart again There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, And therewithal a soft voice called his name; And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame, He saw, betwixt him and the setting sun, The lively image of his loved one. He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, Her very lips, were such as he had made, And though her tresses fell but in such guise As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed In that fair garment that the priests had laid Upon the goddess on that very morn, Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, And once again her silver voice rang clear, Filling his soul with great felicity, And thus she spoke: "Wilt thou not come to me, O dear companion of my new-found life, For I am called thy lover and thy wife? "Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say That was with me e'en now, _Pygmalion, My new-made soul I give to thee to-day, Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won, And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon! Come, love, and walk with me between the trees, And feel the freshness of the evening breeze._ "_Sweep mine hair round thy neck; behold my feet, The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move, Press down the daisies! draw me to thee, sweet, And feel the warm heart of thy living love Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of Jove, Whose loving, tender heart hath wrought all this, And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss._ "Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean! Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen; But this I know, I would we were more nigh, I have not heard thy voice but in the cry Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone."