CARYATIDE
HALL beauty avail thee, Caryatid, crouched, crushed
by the weight of a world of woe?
By birthright the burden is thine: on thy shoulders the
sorrow hath slid
From the hand of the Healer: behold, in the steady,
continuous throe,
Shall beauty avail thee, Caryatid?
Thou wast proud of thy beauty: the burden of beauty was
hid
From thy eyes: how is’t now with thee, now? By the
sweat dropping slow
From the brows of thy anguish, we see what the weight
of it did
To the patient despair of the brain. Shall no God strike
a blow?
Shall no hero be found the unbearable burden to rid ?
And if these be extinct—'tis a fiend that laughs eager
and low:
“Shall beauty avail thee, Caryatid
?”
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