The master-craftsman hath no thought in mind That one sole marble block may not contain Within itself, but this we only find When the hand serves the impulse of the brain ; The good I seek, the harm from which I fly, Lady, divinely proud and fair, even so Are hid in thee, and therefore I must die Because my art is impotent to show My heart's desire ; hence love I cannot blame, Nor beauty in thee, nor thy scorn, nor ill Fortune, nor good for this my pain, since life Within thy heart thou bearest at the same Moment as death, and yet my little skill Revealeth death alone for all its strife. |