Classic Poem

I TOOK my watch to the watchmaker.
It had stopped, but for this I could see no reason:
The case showed no flaw upon its golden surface,
The little wheels inside were bright as quicksilver.
“What is wrong with it?” said I, and waited for his answer.

The watchmaker took it in his fingers,
And tweaked at the frail works with his slender forceps.
I wondered that he could handle them so rudely—
So fine they were, so delicate seemed their arrangement.
“Aha!” said he, “there is a jewel broken.”
“And can you mend it?” “Yes,” he answered,
“I can easily replace it with another.”
“And will the watch then go as well as before?”
“Yes,” said he, “it will be as good as new.”

The Idol that I loved was broken, was broken!
My beautiful Idol with the lips of crimson,
The Idol that the great God gave me in the garden.
In the garden of my dreams, in the morning of the world,
Drawing back the flaming curtain of the sunrise,
He showed her me among the dew and flowers.

She laughed and sang and clasped her arms around me,
She raised her lips to mine, and the fire of youth ran through me.
I thought she would be mine for ever and ever.
I watched her, and did not understand, but only marvelled;
I marvelled, and did not understand, but only worshipped;
I worshipped, and did not understand, but only loved her.

My Idol was broken, was broken, was broken!
Those lips like the petals of a broken lily
Were pale that laughed dawn-red in the red dawning,
And old age came upon me as I kissed them.

Then remembered I the broken watch and the watchmaker;
And I bethought me of a certain mender of idols,
How that he had wrought great wonders with his knives and simples;
And I found him, and showed him my Idol that was broken.
“Can you mend it?” said I, and hung upon his answer.
But he shook his head and looked at me in sadness:
“Alas!” said he, “there is a jewel broken,
A jewel that none can mend except the Maker.”
Now I knew well who had made my Idol,
And that I could never hope to find Him;
Wherefore in a little while I took my Idol,
And laid it away where I could see it no more.

And now I walk all alone within the garden,
And watch the shadows creep from flower to flower;
And I know that very soon it will be night-time.
And I weep no more, for something whispers
Through the hush of evening from the cool vastness
That when the glory of the sunset ripens
The great God will draw once more the curtain,
The great God, the Maker—and lo, my Idol!
Renewed, her arms the portals of heaven,
Her lips the chalice of eternal life!