Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich 18361907
Thomas Bailey Aldrich192 On an Intaglio Head of Minerva
B
The flowing tresses of the woman!
Minerva, Pallas, what you will—
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
In cousin’s helmet masquerading; If not—then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading! Not made for love’s despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom’s mouth so shaped for kisses? And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She ’s older far than Trajan’s Column! And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion. Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps ’t was Lais. His happy or unhappy story: Nameless and dead these centuries, His work outlives him—there ’s his glory! Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up— To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom! Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded. And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!