On a Cast from an Antique

Headless, without an arm, a figure leans By something vaguely Greek,—a fount, an urn; Dim stairs climb past her where one’s thoughts discern A temple or a palace. Some great queen’s Daughter art thou? or humbly one of those Who serve a queen? Is this the sacred thing That holds thy child, thy husband, or thy king? Or lightly-laughing water? No one knows. A woman once, now merely womanhood, In gentle pose of un-selfconscious dream That consecrates all ministry of love. Gone are thy temples and the gods thereof, But through the ruin of centuries sublime Heart speaks to heart, and still is understood.