Rodin in Rime

And I who witness am possessed by awe grown crimson with desire, Its iron image wrapped in fire and branded idly on my breast. Her face is bronze, her skin is green, as woods and suns would have it so. Her secret wonders grow and glow, limned in the luminous patine. Worship, the sculptor’s, clean forgot in worship of her body lithe, And time forgotten with his scythe, and thought, the Witenagemot. Confused in rapture: peace is culled a flower from the arboreal root, The vision dulled, the singer mute, shattered the lute, the song annulled. 41 G