Epitaph for a Certain Sculptor

For him, a priest stern at the sacrifice,

There have been piled more offerings than we guess.

Ripe fruits, and flowers dewy with loveliness,

And slaughtered lambs, and manuscripts of price,

And wine, and fans whereon a queen's device

Was carven, fed the sacrificial flame;

Else had it leaped less high. Useless to blame

The fire no cheaper fuel could half suffice.

And useless now to blame him; he is dead;

He held a faith whose Savior late had gone

Back to some Heaven; he struggled on alone,

A priest at altars whence the god had fled;

Not happy till his own cold heart had shed

Its last drop, too, on the sacrificial stone.