On a Broken Marble

'Twas pious, O moss, to close those eyes of thine;
For from this wasted wood has fled and gone
The Virgin who the milk and wine poured on
The earth to that fair name which marked the line.

Viburnum, hops and ivy this divine
Ruin enfold—unknowing if 'twas Faun,
Pan, Hermes or Silvanus;—and upon
Its scarred, maimed front their verdurous tendrils twine.

See! The slant ray, caressful as of old,
In its flat face has set two orbs of gold;
As though from lip the vines with laughter run;

And, magic spell, the breeze around it blown,
The leaves, the wavering shadows, and the sun,
Have made a living God of this wrecked stone.