Though my heart is bleeding and torn.
And my chisel is lying ruined,
For my dearest hope is gone,
Since I see on my towering altar
But a lifeless idol of stone.
Still I bow in homage lowly,
And beg and entreat in vain
For a loving word or pitying glance
To reward my tedious pain.
Ah! poor are earthly idols,
And paltry is human art, -
Not the noblest hand that ever toiled
Could fashion a woman's heart!
So I tore from the lofty column
My idol fashioned with hands,
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