Down the long hall she glistens like a star, <br />The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, <br />Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. <br />Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. <br />When first the enthralled enchantress from afar <br />Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone, <br />Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne, <br />As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,-- <br />But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, <br />Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. <br />Here Heine wept! Here still he weeps anew, <br />Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, <br />While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, <br />For vanished Hellas and Hebraic plain.<br /><br />Emma Lazarus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/venus-of-the-louvre/
