||[Jan. 8th, 2005|09:13 am]
His own cold Galatea, he has hewn|
From rough untempered flesh a form refined
And, ah! of such bright beauty that the moon
In shining on him finds herself struck blind.
Of such a grace, such innocence entwined
With wanton taste and need, he could not be
Of any other birth; from his own mind
He sprang. No mother bore him, none but he
Created him. Brave youth, to struggle free
Of nature's grim design, and live as such;
To bring such sweet, unnatural joy to me,
To be the jewel sculpted by my touch,
The rare, exquisite taste that draws my kiss.
Beloved boy, you are pure artifice.