What hope Pygmalion yet might have, when he First left the pillars of the dreamy place, Amid such sights had vanished utterly. He turned his weary eyes from face to face, Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, "Ah life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!" And as he went, though longing to be there Whereas his sole desire awaited him, Yet did he loath to see the image fair, White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb, And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim That unto some strange region he might come, Nor ever reach again his loveless home. Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream, Seemed waked from his old folly; nought seemed good In all the things that he before had deemed At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed Cold light of day--he found himself alone, Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. And yet for that past folly must he weep, As one might mourn the parted happiness That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep; And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless The hard life left of toil and loneliness, Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet Emmeshed for ever in the memory's net. Weeping he entered, murmuring, "O fair Queen, I thank thee that my prayer was not for nought, 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?" * * * * * Thus 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 lovéd 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.