PYGMALION AND GALATEA

Breathless precision of stone melts to the bliss of flesh;

The sculptor's rapture creates a lover's discovery,

While the slow sweep of his hand keeps in its singleness 

Both blade that cuts away and smoothing gentleness.

Almost his touch is a search for dust of ivory;

Almost her jumping pulse is his workshop's purpose.

But the moth-soft mimicry of internal passageways

Is incomplete. The summer-sweet susurrus at her mouth,

Though sent by Venus, is a tremble of wordlessness,

Their alabaster couplings her sole success.

He will turn philosopher when he learns her selflessness.