I MADE me a glorious idol,
All fashioned by mortal hands;
And there on its shrined altar
All mute and icy it stands.
The hair is falling in clusters,
And the eye is open to see;
But never a glance nor favoring smile
Has that marble eye for me.
The lips are open for speaking,
And I long for a single word;
I have prayed and besought my idol,
But never an answer have heard.
The smile that I carved in triumph
But mocks me now in scorn,
Yet I bend to my ruthless idol,
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