William Morris,
Pygmalion and the Image
“ The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring May chide his useless labor never done, For all his murmurs, with no other thing He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting, And thus in thought's despite the world goes on; And so it was with this Pygmalion.Unto the chisel must he set his hand, And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace About a work begun, that there doth stand, And still returning to the self-same place, Unto the image now must set his face, And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, Half loathed, half loved, a little rest to win. ”
