And now, this monarch means, for you and me, But this, a hand’s breadth of fine ivory, In tint and texture exquisite indeed, Responding to the cunning carver’s need

To shape a tale of saints on missal cover, To celebrate the Mourning Mother’s grace, To mould forever for some eager lover The perfect flower of his lady’s face;

Nay more, for love of father, mother, friend, To frame a fond remembrance; to enscroll A fleeting glimpse, a vista without end, That mortal mystery, a maiden’s soul.