Opus

Thy face the Artist will portray

In alabaster-crusted clay-

A monument to alchemy-

Though looking in the red of day

May nothing of its strength betray.

The Sculptor then will surely see

The glory in the heart of thee

And take for sculpting chest and eye

Of heat-soft steel and filigree-

And write therein thy victory.

The Architect, of sunlight shy,

Will make thy skin of fading sky,

And stud it with the lighting stars;

Thy frame the firmament, and high

Will hold its bones, and never die.

And who to render running scars?

The opus lives. That work is ours.