To his house the bodiless <br />Come to barter endlessly <br />Vision, wisdom, for bodies <br />Palpable as his, and weighty. <br /> <br />Hands moving move priestlier <br />Than priest's hands, invoke no vain <br />Images of light and air <br />But sure stations in bronze, wood, stone. <br /> <br />Obdurate, in dense-grained wood, <br />A bald angel blocks and shapes <br />The flimsy light; arms folded <br />Watches his cumbrous world eclipse <br /> <br />Inane worlds of wind and cloud. <br />Bronze dead dominate the floor, <br />Resistive, ruddy-bodied, <br />Dwarfing us. Our bodies flicker <br /> <br />Toward extinction in those eyes <br />Which, without him, were beggared <br />Of place, time, and their bodies. <br />Emulous spirits make discord, <br /> <br />Try entry, enter nightmares <br />Until his chisel bequeaths <br />Them life livelier than ours, <br />A solider repose than death's.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sculptor/
