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George MacDonald - Brother ArtistGeorge MacDonald - Brother Artist
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Brother artist, help me; come! Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb. Had I thine, when words did fail— Vassal-words their hasting chief, On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale. Had I hers of music-might, I would shake the air with storm Till the red clouds trailed enorm Boreal dances through the night. Had I his whose foresight rare Piles the stones with lordliest art, From the quarry of my heart Love should climb a heavenly stair! Had I his whose wooing slow Wins the marble`s hidden child, Out in passion undefiled Stood my Psyche, white as snow! Maimed, a little help I pray; Words suffice not for my end; Let thy hand obey thy friend, Say for me what I would say. Draw me, on an arid plain With hoar-headed mountains nigh, Under a clear morning sky Telling of a night of rain, Huge and half-shaped, like a block Chosen for sarcophagus By a Pharaoh glorious, One rude solitary rock. Cleave it down along the ridge With a fissure yawning deep To the heart of the hard heap, Like the rent of riving wedge. Through the cleft let hands appear, Upward pointed with pressed palms As if raised in silent psalms For salvation come anear. Turn thee now—`tis almost done!— To the near horizon`s verge: Make the smallest arc emerge Of the forehead of the sun. One thing more—I ask too much!— From a brow which hope makes brave Sweep the shadow of the grave With a single golden touch. Thanks, dear painter; that is all. If thy picture one day should Need some words to make it good, I am ready to thy call.
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